Green-Eyed Basilisk
by Delusional Fishies
Summary: A continuation of Escaping Phyrexia. The imminent onslaught is stopped, but at a cost too great. Now a shard of the whole planeswalker is thrown to a world where she must either play the game, or die.
1. Green 1

_I blink._

_I am not dead?_

_There is a tint on the world, as if only certain things fit my view, but I am alive… and so are four other versions of me. I see it now and understand, even as they all seem to move too fast for me to comprehend._

_One is White. She holds the crux of my vast powers. Within her heart is the Mox Lotus, the pinnacle of my creations, my Opus. Light wavers and flutters out from her like a hundred tendrils of ethereal tentacles—massive wings of unearthly light. But for all that she is, she is marred with a fierce scowl, facing another version of myself._

_The other is Black. She who contains a million of a million souls or perhaps more, uncountable. They all suffer within her and their primal, guttural urges and emotions filter out of her like a black miasma of hate and terror and destruction. Permanent streaks of black run down her cheeks, like great rivers of tears, though an ugly grin seems to be always plastered on her face. She cackles with selfish insanity, and I see that the mark of Phyrexia on the center of her forehead, like a beacon of evil, beckoning me to shy away._

_I do, and I see two others, too weak to move, but stronger than I._

_One is Red; fiery and on fire. Her pupils are black coals and her skin is fire itself. She circles around the dueling pair, staring off with another that is more of her equal. They both hold a number of Lands of Power, unlike me. But she holds the fires of chaos and wanton annihilation. She also seems to hate herself for all the poor decisions she has made. And that hatred has passed on to another._

_That another is Blue. She is calm and seems to be an island in a sea of time and space, isolated from everything else. But her eyes are calculating and she bares equal ill will towards the Red. She despises herself too, but in different ways and means. She thinks that she should not have existence in the first place. She thinks that each shard of us should crease to be._

_And the last is I, but what I am? I am nothing. I have nothing, but that lends me a unique perspective._

_Because only I see what I have wrought. I see Order suspended in the air, on the brink of death. I see the slaughter I have inflicted. I see all the deaths I have caused. And only I seem to be mourning._

_And that is why I did nothing when I saw Serra banish us to that same oblivion of the Aether, locking us from ever causing any more destruction again. I only wish I had the opportunity to take a moment and whisper an apology to her ears._

_But perhaps I did not deserve such a chance…_

I am with fever. There are a thousand cuts on my body, and the sun is blistering hot. I am delirious; my head sways with unceasing discomfort from side to side, making me more nauseous with each passing moment that I stay awake. There is a rickety wooden cart that quivers with each bump and dent in the uneven road. Someone is pressing something onto my wounds, but they only sting more.

The fever does not stay, because by evening I have awakened to a clear sight and mind. The first things on my mind are not my surroundings—more the fool I am. Instead, I am distraught by my loss of power. I have no Lands of Power now and the place I am in is lifeless and lacking. But it is then that I actually take a moment to study my surroundings.

Some properties of the Spark still stay with me, however. Two men speak, looking down at me with a distain one would usually only reserve for their broken belongings. One is young, handsome in an olive-skinned, curly-haired way of what I imagine to be a young Greek Prince of some sort, but the language he speaks is certainly not of Greece. I do not know what language they are speaking, only that I can understand them without understanding. "Look at her eyes. How very fascinating! It is almost as if they are glowing."

"Indeed, young master," the other man speaks. He is slightly hunched over in a subservient expression of being in the presence of those with power that dwarfs him in some way. He is unshaven, and in the dark torchlight he looks ugly and crude, like a rat of a man waiting for a morsel while hiding in a dark corner. "See how her eyes are angled? There are none like it in the city, perhaps the world."

"Ah, that is so, good friend. I had not noticed until you mentioned it! She looks almost… faerie-like, like a creature of myth. What a find, what a find indeed," He says with a smirk on his face.

"Excuse me," I say, surprising myself with the croak of a cough that comes afterwards and surprising them that I can even talk. "What is a find?"

The aristocratic man is taken back though he does not respond. Instead, it is the overweight man at his side who does reply, "Slave! Do not talk to your betters!" Then he pulls out a cord-like thing that is wrapped around his belt. It is made of black leather, quilted like a snake's scales, but it gleams in the crackling light of the dim fires behind him. Then the man's arm arches back, before the whip cracks down upon me.

It hurts and I cannot control my whimper. There are tiny, brass spikes near the end of the whip, and they bite into my shoulder and arm.

He lashes again, and then again and again. Upon the fifth time, the other, younger man places a hand on the obese beast's wrist and smiles down at me in a way that he must think is kind. "Now, now. That is no way to treat merchandise. I believe you were going to sell her to me?" He reaches forward and holds my chin in his soft, untouched fingers. These are fingers that have not lifted to exert effort for a single day in his life.

I recoil away from him, but he holds tighter, bruising me. It is then that I notice the bronze chains on my wrist and ankles. They are oversized, too large for someone like me. The thickness is enough to hold down a bear.

"Well, well," the man says as he examines me more closely, to my utter revulsion. Then he whispers even softer still, "Well, well… it seems like she has some fight in her, does she not, Nak?"

"Yes, Master Loraq. I will discipline it out of her, do not worry about this." He whimpers almost pitifully at the taller, leaner man's side.

White will never have done as I do. She—that other aspect of me—can never tolerate such blatant disregard for human rights. Stop what you are doing and look within. See what you are truly doing and understanding your faults. Stop, and I shall cleanse the evil from your heart.

Foolish mortal, Black may have spat in rage. I will show you true power before rending you limb from limb, flesh from bone! Your pain shall be legendary yet you will never perish. Know your place!

And what will Red or Blue say? I may never know, but I can guess. Yet I am powerless, so I bow my head and stifle the tears in the corners of my eyes.

The Master Loraq smiles again, but the charm is lost.

I am moved again, soon afterwards by another man. He is bald and muscular, with a skin that has seen enough work under the sun to be bronzed and cracked. And he has a metal collar on. He is a slave, I realize with hot bile rising up from within.

Master Loraq does not treat me badly, though I am all smiles to him. Perhaps he sees through these fake, dainty gestures or perhaps he does not, but he assigns me to holding plates and cups as he and his guests wine and dine. The insult of becoming a glorified serving wench is not lost to me, but a hopeless cloud has fallen over me. I am gawked and pointed at, and I have no hope of escaping this unknown place. Where will I go even if I do escape?

I am given no time to reorient myself; instead every time I move out of place, I am poked with an iron poker or whipped yet again. It is degrading and humiliating, and more so when I find myself cleaning up after these slavers' indiscretions. A small part of me thinks that perhaps I deserve this, but I feel a fire burn within me.

We serve in an almost Grecian-styled house, though I can see a giant pyramid in the distance. It makes me think of Egypt, but there are many differences that deter such reasoning. The house is tall and filled with pillars as thin as a girl. There is marble here, and stone, but the most plenty is copper. Almost everything is of copper-make, so much that it seems as if everything is seen in a bronze-colored light.

The household is large. There are over fifty guards in the house alone, with double the number in serving ladies—glorified maids to be used in whatever capacity that the lord of the house wishes. We are all slaves, it seems, and this brews something ugly within my mind.

There is another girl who serves beside me. She is the girl who pours wine while I hold the cups. She is quiet too. I do not get up the courage to speak to her until my third night as a slave in the Loraq household.

"Who are you?" I ask her softly.

She does not answer and pretends she does not hear me.

I try again, and again, "What is your name?"

"I have no name," She replies. "I am a slave."

"But surely you were not a slave your entire life. What was your name before you became a slave?" I reason.

She stares off into the darkness. "It has been a long time. I do not remember," She says at last.

"Do you not think of yourself as human anymore?" I muttered silently, but I see that the question is meaningless to her. I ask again, "Where are we?"

"We are in the house of Loraq." She pauses and turns to me, finally. There is a blank expression on her face. She is young—perhaps less than fifteen years old—and looks like something of a mix between middle-eastern and Greek. Then she admonishes me. "You should not speak more. It is not a slave's place to do so. Sleep."

I ignore that, in a vain vein of defiance. "I mean what is this city called. Is it Cairo?"

"No." She looks at me strangely, and then answers as if speaking to a child, "We are in Meereen."

"Never heard of it," I comment.

She turns away from me, showing me that my ignorance does not matter rather than speaking it aloud. In the darkness of the slave's quarters, we are surrounded by soft snores and coughs, though more groans of pain than sighs of relief.

"So… How did you become a slave? You weren't born into it, were you?" I ask. After a moment's pause, I realize she will not respond anymore, so I speak again.

To tell the truth, I am not speaking to her anymore. I am just speaking to myself, really. I am desperate, can't you see? I don't want to lose myself into this life, without Mana and far away from home. I do not want to turn myself into a slave or be enslaved anymore. I will not lie and say that the whippings do not hurt. They do, but it isn't a physical sort of pain.

So I keep talking, "Well, if you aren't going to remember your name, I'm going to give you one. How about… Cleo? It's the name of a pretty girl, who caused quite a mess. No? How about Helen? It's a pretty name. But I think you probably won't like it. I think I'll call you something simple. How about Sarah? That's a pretty and nice name."

She still does not reply, but her breathing is smoother and softer now. Perhaps she truly is asleep.

But all I can do is keep talking, to keep the bottled up feelings and all the tears from leaking. It is hard, and after a moment, the sting of tears hits me. It hits me hard and I start sobbing, unheard and unseen.

I cry myself to sleep, and it is not the first night this happens. Without Mana, I find myself so much weaker and useless compared to before. I am frail. It is true that I am not entirely human, or even close, but it is like trying to play the card game with a hundred cards in your hand, a million points of life, but not a single land in play.

Trying to befriend or even talk to my fellow slaves is a hard thing. They are all indoctrinated to do otherwise, to obey and never question or idle. Maybe they do see through my thin veil and realize that I'm just crying. Or maybe they are taken back by the strange girl trying to befriend them with false cheer? Whatever the case, it takes weeks for them to get used to me.

I think of them looking at my eyes when they speak to me as an achievement, though it is dimmed by that my pupils are glowing with a leafy, green light.

"Hey Sarah!"

The younger girl looks up in surprise at the shout.

I smirk at her, "Ha! You responded. I knew I can get you to keep the name."

She pouts, "Only because you keep insisting to yell that name at me with every opportunity. Stop being such a bother and help set the table. The Master is hosting guests today."

"Who is the guest of honor today?" I ask with a wide smile. I have gotten better at faking sincerity it seems, because Sarah rolls her eyes at me exasperatedly in response.

"You should stop being so cheerful. It is not a slave's place."

"Oh, come on," I tug at her wrist, on the verge of trying to coax her into a Disney sing-along (and I would have, if I had even a drop of Mana).

I must have tugged harder than I intended, because she dropped the fragile glass goblets in her hands the moment I pulled.

I stare at the mess of shattered glass, almost too frightened to even notice how the cuts along Sarah's ankles begin to bleed.

She turns to me, her eyes wide. There is fear in her eyes and she covers her mouth, only allowing a soft gasp to escape. "Oh no…"

No sooner than that, the Master Loraq walks in with his guests.

There are three of them, followed by a group of ten guards. All three hold themselves up in a haughty air, as if they were the masters of the world. They wear the clothes of the people of the desert, with their chests uncovered and gleaming.

Seeing the mess and hoping to impress his friends, Master Loraq roars, "What is going on here? What have you slaves done this time?!"

"I… I…" Sarah looks down at the mess and up at the master on the verge of tears.

"Hey Loraq, give the girl to me," One of the three walks down the steps and stops beside Sarah. He is a large brute of a man, and I do not like the look in his eyes as he traces Sarah's figure.

"No, wait, please," I didn't know why I stepped out at that moment. "I was the one who did it, not her!"

The brute looks at me with a gross expression that makes a shiver run down my spine before turning towards Master Loraq. He smirks and says again, "Hey, how about giving them both to me, eh? You know you got to beat the fire out of them before using them as servants, don't you, boy?"

"I, well, I did pay quite a sum…"

"I'll make up the costs. You know, you've got a reputation for being soft on the slaves. It's not good for you, I'll tell you what." He slings a smelly arm around the younger man's shoulders and leans close. "Hell, I'll show you how it's done, right here."

"I…" He looks at Sarah and then at me. Then he nods, as if strengthening his resolve, and I hate him for it. "Alright. Guards! Tie them up to the pillars!"

Nothing dirty happened afterwards, mind you. It was a dinner party, after all; the men did not want to lose their appetites by dithering and dirtying themselves with the affairs of slaves, after all. They simply wanted to get high on the power that comes with domination.

But each stroke of the whip stoked a fire in my heart.

And each stroke took away the health of Sarah's heart.

I only realized what happened afterwards, when the other slaves were trying to help her. She could not move. The monster of man exerted himself upon us equally… Perhaps she had always had weaker constitution. She never did talk about these things.

I won't bore you with my poor attempt at leading a revolt, because it is a failed attempt. Apparently the city of Meereen was close to another city called Yunkai. For some reason, that name was familiar, but… I do not remember why it piqued my interests.

All I know is that their commander-princes came down upon this ill-thought out slave revolt and shattered us like throwing ceramic at stone wall. We are just simple slaves with no discipline in military, just some kindled spirits.

They are professionals… and slaves too, apparently. The sad reality is just that: these monsters in human flesh use slaves to kill slaves and keep them down.

They kill and kill, keep going until their commander stops them with a simple word. Such brainwashed… I do not even know what they are. Janissaries? Hoplites? Are they even slaves anymore, so well trained and well armed? But it does not matter, because I am once again bathed in the blood of my friends and fellows. I can see why Black wants to dominate. I can see why White wants to eradicate. I can see why Red wants to destroy. I can see why Blue wants to undo…

But I am none of them, with none of their powers.

And that is how I ended up here, in the center of the gladiator pit they call Daznak's Pit. That is why the owner, or perhaps just another skilled orator, is speaking and announcing me like a barbarian warlord in ancient Rome. "... And here is the leader of the rebellion," He pauses for a moment. None of them truly even know my name. But he chooses one for me, on the spot, "The Green-Eyed Basilisk!"

I can work with that.

They give me nothing, expecting me to be torn apart by beasts and men. I shy away from fighting, even during the rebellion, because I know I am not trained, but also because I fear for myself. It is a shameful thing that I do not admit, but now I have to fight.

They force me to walk into the middle of a grand arena, a pit of sand drenched in dried blood. I pause as I stand in the center, alone to be jeered at. With a clenched fist that grasps a handful of sand, I hold it up and allow the grains to be released. I speak to the arena, knowing that I will probably die. And I know I deserve it, after all this. But this gesture is for the dead, not the living, "I who am about to die salute you."

And then the bronze gates creak, as their gears are turned and they are lifted.

Two chariots enter, one from each side. They circle me like hawks watching a dying animal. Each is driven by one man, who also hold a spear in his hands. They are armored and well fed. They drive with two horses and their wheels are spiked with jagged teeth.

Here is I, with my rags and my many nights of torture. Here is I with my bare hands and lack of magic. So I do the only thing I can: I taunt them, "Come on, you cowards! Kill me!"

The crowd mutters, and heads turn like a wave.

"Come on!" I yell as loudly as I can, though my throat has been hoarse many nights ago since the first screams escaped my lips. "Kill me like the pigs you are!"

One of them loses his patience. He throws a light pilum at me and it flies over my shoulder, grazing what remains of my slave garments.

As I roll to a side, I grip onto the spear. The sounds of hooves surround me on both sides, but I can hear clearly what is behind me. So my body twists and I turn, planting the spear in the ground as the other chariot races towards me.

The rider sees what I have done, but he reacts too slowly.

His horses charge into the spear point and I duck again. The spear is ruined, but so is the horse. It whines in pain and kicks its brother at its side—a giant gash in its neck and the metal point clearly displayed on the other side of its flesh.

The chariot turns and I jump at the man, one hand on his face and the other arm locking tightly around his neck.

We struggle savagely for many moments. In his death throes, he stumbles off of the chariot cart, and his weapons clatter on the sands around him. He chokes, and I release him—to early, I realize too late. But I have his short sword, and I cut the ropes holding the still living horse. With a slap on its flank, it jolts and runs head-long into the other remaining chariot.

Then I turn about and stab the sword into the man's throat, grinning like the savage that I have become. There is no time for pleasantries here, and I only want to live, so I kick the man's pilum into the air and into my hands and I toss it.

The metal head plants itself into the stomach of the remaining chariot driver and I bound towards the cart as it comes to a halt. There is another sword there, and the spear is still useable.

Someone shouts in the distance, in the stands closest to the sands, in a guttural tongue I do not bother hearing.

And then the gates are opened once again. But this time more than two enter. There are fifty of them, and I see their hollow, blank stares. These are the soldiers that slaughtered my fellow slaves. These are the slaves who kill slaves, without a single thought for remorse or a single regret. They look at me with the dull, deathly stares of theirs, in the blackened leather armor that they all wear.

I know from experience that there is no reason for taunting them. I cannot taunt them, for they cannot listen. They only listen to whoever commands them, holding those golden whips like they are gods of some sort.

Gods…

The sad irony hits me and I find myself talking to my opponents, even as they circle me, "You do not believe in gods, do you?" I mutter angrily, as I toss the remaining two spears into their ranks, killing two of them before they can reach me—one at fifty paces and another at thirty. "I think I approve."

They do not answer, but they attack together with a thrust of their spears.

I hop backwards, using the two short swords to beat away their distant strikes. "I think I approve…" I say again. "No gods, no masters."

The first row tries to throw their weapons at me. I dodge what I can, and grab those that I cannot. Two pierce my thighs, but I still walk upright somehow. Another is deep into my ribs, and I think I have trouble breathing. I kindly return their spears, but I miss more than half of my throws. Thankfully, they stand so close, that another may use their bodies to catch the spears that miss their intended targets.

They rush me then, in a disciplined, cold manner. Their feet stomp down at the sands like an oppressive force of cruelty and they thrust at the same time, each protecting the other their tiny, linked shields.

But I am not within the range of spears, because I have ducked down and rolled into range of swords. I slash at their ankles and their knees, and roll away when the second line thrusts down at me.

It is annoying to fight so many, I toss a sword aside to free a hand, letting the sword rest comfortably in the eye of one of these hoplites, right through his skull.

He gurgles, and I spin, making an arc of blood with my second sword against the sands at my feet. The grey-eyed beasts stare, and I realize that this man may have been their leader of some sort. Waste not, want not; I grab his spear and thrust.

I run to their flank and cut a blood swath through their ranks. Discipline and training means nothing in the face of utter brutality unlike anything they have faced before. There are more than a hundred cuts on my body now. More than two hundred stabs. One of my eyes is not working properly, and I think I see the eyeball on a spear point some distances away, lying in the sand. One arm hangs limp at my side, and I cannot feel my legs.

But all fifty of them are dead.

And I hold the head of the last above my shoulders. The rulers of the city in their bright red viewing boxes gape at me. The citizens alternate between cheering and booing. The slaves and commoners add to the noise, but I cannot tell from the volume of chatter in the arena. So I roar to the crowd in a cruel parody of something entirely different yet so similar at the same time, with all the rage and savagery in my soul, "Are you not entertained, Meereen? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"

From the corner of my existence, I feel a tingle of power drip drop into my soul, from the very sands at my feet…


	2. Green 2

"I want my freedom." That is the first thing I demand from the master of the arena. He is a thickly muscled man about a head taller than most of those around him. Beside him is my former master, the head of House Loraq.

They waited until I was tired and the noise of the crowd had died, before herding me into a cell within the arena with hot pokers. The bloodletting I caused lent me too much popularity to be executed instantly, but we all knew people's memories are short in these matters.

The men look down at me, not just as if I am a foolish, impatient child, but also something else. They do not see me as their equal, even if they see my worth. The master of the sands is the first to speak, "Do you really think we would let you go free? You are lucky we have not ordered your execution immediately."

But there is something else in his eyes. Oh, how I wish I to use the Blue to batter down his mind to see his thoughts…

"Besides," The man adds, "You are just a woman."

"Now, now," Master Loraq's eyes dart between us. He places a placating hand on the other, larger man's forearm and says, "We can make an agreement for your release. But you cannot expect it immediately. Perhaps if you survived a hundred bouts, I will consider buying your freedom from the city of Meereen. You have wronged a great many people in your little… unrest."

My eyes gleam in the dark, and I see that it unsettles them. The sweat that Loraq wipes from his forehead, the way the larger man's pupils dilate, the way they give these little cues in between all of that, and so many other signs show their nervousness to me as clearly as if they have just declared it to me outright. "No," I retort as I lean back and cross my arms in a subconscious show of defiance, "I won't fight more than ten bouts."

"You are in no place to dictate your terms and this is not a bazaar. Should we wish it, we can simply impale you in the center of the city and wait for you to die, as is the punishment for those who fail the city as a whole," Master Loraq replies smoothly. Oh look, he thinks he has nothing to fear from me.

I look inward and see the pool there. It is miniscule and so green-tinted I do not know what to do with it at first glance. The pool of Green Mana, filled with the savagery of the arena, is so shallow that it is barely a drop compared to the ocean I once had.

I once commanded the forces of the multiverse to shape reality at my whim. I could have made uncountable numbers of beings so great that they would be gods to these men. But now all I had was a few droplets, not even enough to quench the thirst of a dying sun.

But what I have is enough to course through my veins and enkindle my nerves. My bruises, cuts and stabs heal in moments before the two men's eyes. "I think I do," I say, as an unnerving brutish force fills my body. It wants to act, to do rather than to say. Whatever. I am done with negotiating anyway. The iron chains that hold me to the walls clink as I tug on them. Then I tug again, with enough force to tear the nails apart. The cuffs are inconvenient, but I think they can be of use, so I study them for a moment, with the broken chains dangling loosely, before turning back to the men. Master Loraq is three steps further away than he was. I do not hold back a smirk. "I think I have some leverage, Loraq."

"That's Master Loraq to you, you-!" He pauses and closes his eyes. Then he straightens his ridiculous wing-shaped hair before speaking with more composure. "I will reduce the bouts by twenty, but the city will cry for your blood if any less."

Idly, I note that the trickle of Green Mana is not nearly enough to even close my deeper wounds. My empty eye socket itches, and a drop of blood dribbles out, but I cannot see out of it. My little show of strength leaves my wrists hurting, and something inside feels out of place. But even with all of these things, I cannot but help smile.

"Now who is acting like he's in a market place? I will not bargain with you. Ten bouts are more than enough for the city to forget my crimes." I hide a grimace at the pain. The bleeding has not stopped. Then I hide another grimace at the wounds that seem to be bursting from my earlier action. Hopefully they will buy my bluff. "I am not bargaining with you, Loraq."

He sneers, but his lips are grey. "I will consider it," he crosses his arms and spits without taking a moment to consider, but he does not promise a date. "Slave."

They turn to leave and I am left with trying to collect droplets of water in an expansive desert…

…

…The thousands roar and rise from the stands in concert. From the lowest of slaves standing at the very edge of the coliseum so far at the top to the richest merchant princes who lay lavishly on plush pillows at the front rows, they are captive to the blood spilling to the earth. It is the same question on their minds, over and over again, _when will she die?_

The copper helm is stifling and hot. Its leather strap chokes against my neck. It is an oven that bakes my head. The brass links sting as they chafe against my cheeks.

I toss it aside.

My sweat-matted hair flies loosely in the wind. The air is cool, against the hot summer sun. The sky is cloudless, perhaps in anticipation of the red river that will flow. Salty droplets roll down my forehead, and I wipe them away. They are rare, but sweat keeps coming. The collar is wet from it, though the edges are flayed and worn. I blink the sweat out of my eyelashes and soon forget it altogether.

Breathe in and breathe out.

The shield is heavy and made of inferior stuff. It is the thing of a bygone era, square and large enough to cover me from head to toe. It is also completely made from bronze, and its handle is hot to hold. Now it is also slick against my palm for it even as my hands are powdered, I cannot but help feel nervous.

Each moment I tread here, I tread beside death. The masters of the city hate me as much as they love me. I have become a spectacle for their people to flock to. _When will the Basilisk die?_ _Who will kill the Green-Eyes?_ They hate me, but they love that I captivate the crowd.

It is an easy thing, really. I am not skilled at this nor have I any true experience with showboating. But I come from the nation of the greatest films of an age, and I once lived in Southern California for even longer still. It is in my education and my culture, in a way, to know how to speak to them. And it is rather easy to… ham it up. The simplest, dullest tricks of actors and magicians and comedians that everyone is sick of are all zesty and fresh here. This utter displacement forces me to realize that not only am I in a different plane entirely from home or any that I would be familiar with, but also at the precipice of civilization.

More civilized people would not condone slavery, I hope.

Besides, I feel I am good at this. The language comes intuitively to me, and so communication, often the greatest of barriers is nothing to me. I am thankful I retained at least that much.

So the nobles hate me, but they cannot but keep me alive. The commons love me. The citizens enjoy watching me struggle for another day of life. The slaves are pacified, to see my hardships as the consequence of rebellion. And so I have become a resource to them, I think. They will not let me out, not after ten bouts. Not after twenty. Not after thirty. This is my fiftieth fight. Each has been tougher than the last, which is no easy thing, in some ways.

There is only so much manpower for me to slaughter.

I look down at my feet at the red gold sands. How many have died here? Hundreds? Thousands? Such a thing is so… pointless. It is such a waste of life. But even if I scoff at it, I cannot say I know a better method of keeping the masses occupied.

So I think of the present instead, knowing that I am just a small, insignificant piece in a larger game.

The pebbles in my sandals sting into my soles. They are hard, and they grind against my skin. Some crack and break into smaller pieces, digging into my flesh. Others just cut until I bleed from my feet. The sandals are rough and made from dry wood. Splinters break on my skin, but there is an uneasy unevenness to them that causes me to pause. They are strung together by loose, hemp-like rope, but I do not truly know what it is. Only that its frayed pieces distract me, irritating at my skin.

I shrug off my shoes and feel the sands intimately against my feet. The ground is hot, but not blisteringly so. From where I stand, I feel the heart of the world beating, one year at a time, against the blood rushing in my veins. It is a good warmth at my feet, and I curl my toes for a single second of enjoyment.

The iron cuffs are still on my wrists, misshapen and bruising. But I keep them on. They are a sign of my enslavement, something I will never forget. A long rope of chains hang from each cuff, longer than three times my reach. Each link clinks against the others it is connected to, chiming softly in the wind.

The air is no longer stifling. It is cool and brushes away my beads of sweat.

The ground is no longer stinging. It is warm and infuses me with a sense of life.

The arena is full.

Lions circle around me, four in all. They growl and posture, but they do not close in. Each hungers for flesh and have learned to love the taste of humans. And each has been starved properly, for them to carve me all the more.

I should be preparing. I ought to be enforcing my position and making myself defensible. They expect it of me. The crowd expects it of me too. Instead, I raise one of the two gladii that have found their way into my hands in past bouts. I shout to the arena, and the whole group silences itself to hear what I have to say, "People of Meereen. I who am about to die salute you!"

It has become a sort of a catch phrase for me. And the crowd roars back in response, either in approval of me or in anticipation of my coming death.

"People of Meereen. Are you ready to be entertained?"

They respond louder still.

"I can't hear you! DO YOU CRAVE BLOOD, MEEREEN?"

The air vibrates with excitement, and the ground trembles as the whole of the city fitted into the audience begin to stomp their feet. They are eager for death. They want it, and it excites them.

…_I would be lying if I said this didn't excite me._

The cheers and jeers startle my opponents. The largest hangs back, but the other three close in on me.

The closest lion has a mane full of long and wild hair, and its chin drips with dried blood. Its ribs show slightly, but its maw and front paws are larger than the others. It is the first to lunge at me.

I roll towards it, but I am not fast enough.

Three long, shallow and red gashes rip open along by back, just as one deep one tears apart the first lion's belly. As it lands, its intestines spill onto the sands in a gory, disgusting display. It does not even have time to moan, before largest of the other lions break its neck and begin tearing at its flesh.

My body turns, and I cannot help but stare hungrily at the dead beast. It has been two days since I have been fed. There has only been dirty rain water for me, for so long… I shake my head and sway to a side, narrowly dodging another pounce at my neck.

My arm arches back and then shoots forward. The chains wrap around the smallest of the remaining beasts' neck—then again and again to a total of four times—and I pull with one arm.

It budges a step, choking a gurgle in alarm.

The largest lion turns from its feast. Its face is covered in a splattering of red and brown, and a bit of sand clings to its chin.

The other beast behind me turns too, readying another jump.

My other hand grips the chains and I pull with both hands. A drop of Green Mana is used then—one of the four drops I have at my disposal. The sudden rush of primal power is enough to rip the lion into the air and nearly shred its neck in half.

I roll forward again and jump at it. It isn't dead, but my gladius surges up and sticks into its maw.

The first stab is not deep enough, and the beast claws at me pitifully. Red lines mar my already scarred arms. I grimace, and I allow myself to cry in pain.

The cry causes the arena to roar. Anything to remind them of the fatal situation, anything to make them sit at the edge of their seat, is another favor to me and another day of death delayed.

I push deeper, and after a moment, the dull blade pierces the roof of the lion's mouth and erupts in a small shower of brain and bone from the back of its skull. With a last, weak whine, the light fades from its eyes.

Just as I stand, hundreds of pounds of muscle collides into my side.

The larger lion has come to play, and it immediately makes a play at breaking my neck in its jaws. Its arms push against my shoulders, keeping me against the sands in a humiliating posture.

I yell back, half out of fear and half in a primal surge of rage. Another droplet of Green Mana disappears from my repertoire—and I push its paws off of me, my hands on its neck as its teeth try to sink into mine. It largely misses, but I feel the sharpness piercing my collar and my collarbone cracking under the strain.

My tiny, girly fingers wrap around its mane and push deeper and deeper, mostly out of desperation than any truly well-thought out act. I kick at its nether regions and I strike my knee against its ribs in rapid succession.

It is a sound like thunder—the sound of its ribs breaking under the strikes of my knees.

A weak moan escapes its teeth, signaling for me to push it aside. But I do not let it up, and instead wrestle until I am on top. Then, with an insane craze, I squeeze.

_I squeeze._

Another crack tells me that the neck is broken, and I tear my bloody hands off of the lion's neck. Thick, sticky life-juices dribble down my broken nails. There are some tufts of hair stuck to my fingers, trapped under my nails, too.

But I have no time for that. I spin and the chains shoot out. One misses its mark, but the other lashes against the cheek of the lion that hides in my blind spot.

And to think, I still can't heal my eye after fifty days of languishing in this hellish pit.

I can barely remember myself anymore. All I think of is the savagery of this slave arena…

The lion lurches back at the blow. It squeaks in pain.

I would know that feeling well—a hit from these chains is enough to knock a grown man down, but for the first twenty matches, about three-fourths of my attempts ended up with the chains spinning around and slapping me in the ass.

My arms reach back and up, then the two chains fall down on the lion, and it nearly falls to its knees. "Kneel," I growl, loudly enough for the sound to echo through the arena. It is strangely quiet. "Kneel." I spit another two drops of the Green Mana down to the dried-up well of my soul, one to strengthen myself and the other to amplify my blows. "Kneel!"

The lion tries vainly to kill me still.

I cannot fault it for blame it.

Neither of us wanted this, I think. But at the moment, I did not think. All I wanted was to end this.

I take a step closer and my fist strikes out. The lion's shoulder is dislodged. Then my other palm slams against the lion's jaw. Broken bits of bone and teeth are coughed out. Once more, I roar, "KNEEL!" Then I punch the lion with the last moments of the power of the Green, and its skull is broken upon the red sands of the arena.

Yet the arena is still strangely silent.

"They have sold you, you know?" A queer, quiet voice mutters, but I hear it well. It belongs to a hawkish, shriveled up ghoul of a man. Dark rings surround his eyes and his lips are grey and black like that of the dead. There is an eeriness about him that I cannot understand, but I see something different about him. A drop of Mana lingers on his soul. He smiles as he meets my eyes.

I shiver in return. "Who…? What…?" My head spins. Why am I so tired?

The drop is Green one moment, but then it changes colors. Then it is Black. His smile widens and he walks forward, silently.

Strange, I think to myself. His steps make no sound.

There are ten or more of him now. They surround me. His teeth are blackened and disgusting, smelling foul of maggots and the decay. His hands are covered in fungi, green and black from rot. His clothes are nondescript, but they flow down his body, fittingly. The most noticeable features they have is that his skin is blue, his eyes are blue, and so are his nails. So disgustingly blue, just hiding their true nature of Black…

The last thing I hear, before my vision swims to blackness is his soft hissing, "I have paid a high price for you, but you are worth it, Basilisk. Welcome to the House of the Undying."

"May your stay be forever."


	3. Melony 1

The first time she met the Lady was when she was still an apprentice under a greater, wiser Priest of R'hllor.

He had been instructed by his superiors to travel to the city of Qarth for purposes he did not divulge to her, but she saw it in the fires: she was on the road to her destiny. She also saw the Lady with the glowing green eyes then, and she knew not what it meant. She dared not ask her teacher, for he is a strict man who seems to tread on the road of a heretic at times.

So that first time she arrived in Qarth, she played with her red gold choker—yet another sign of servitude that is hidden in the symbols of the devout, not that she minded—and stared everywhere. She was nervous and more than a little scared. Isn't everyone afraid of their destiny? Even if people wished to know their futures, wouldn't they all be frightened by the possibility of the wrong things that could happen? Still, Qarth was her future and she accepted that much.

Yet Qarth was not what she expected, truthfully.

It was once hailed as the 'greatest city that ever was or ever will be'. That time must have past, for Qarth was half in ruins. The tall walls of the city hid what was within, but there were no guards there to stop their entourage from entering.

This was a strange sign, since it was well known how protective the port city was.

But even with the walls still standing and strong, the ruinous powers upon the city were evident from afar. Tall plumes of ashy smoke rose like a thousand, deep roots to a majestic tree, blotting out the sky. The run roasted the city, making everything seem wavy and distant, but much of what was inside was destroyed. It was no fire that destroyed the city—that much she could see with ease. The tallest structures were struck from the side, and the smaller ones were crushed.

It was as if the Hand of R'hllor had reached down from the clouds and crushed this insignificant gnat of an upstart group of hovels for their pretentious actions…

The stories the refugees fleeing from the city told to her more in detail. But such stories had to be taken with an ounce of wisdom, for they are often wrought with lies. And how could she believe them?

That a giant rose from the heretical Palace of Dust, composed of all those who were sacrificed within to elongate the unlife of the undying, roaring for vengeance against the warlocks?

That a thousand trees rose up as one, each growing tendrils of stems and bulbs into some kind of amalgamation of horrific nightmares made into reality in the form of flowers and leaves?

That a storm of epic proportions came down upon the city like a hammer with that same giant, covered in the blue blood of the warlocks, at its eye?

Such fanciful tales were just that: fanciful tales.

Nevertheless, she straightened her hair and fingered her jewelry nervously. The Lady was within this city. The door to her destiny was here…

Her master slapped the rump of her buttocks and grumbled, "Stop making a fool of yourself and at least try to look dignified." Then he turned away, leading their small caravan further into the city of ruins. "This place is a mess… what's the point of even coming here?"

What point is there, indeed?

The street was covered in rumble. Giant chunks of stone accompanied by many exotic wares and goods. Lumber had to be imported, so to see so many wooden beams just scattered about was a bit of a surprise. Thousands of broken jars of expensive ceramics laid about like useless pieces of scattered artifacts. They would have no more value. And for each house that stood, there was ten more that were in various states of destruction, likes of which only the True God could have wrought.

It was a daunting sight to behold: the street was at least a hundred houses long, and there were perhaps a hundred of such streets… with all of their structures crushed, smashed and shattered.

A single lady approached them, and her breath hitched when she saw those eyes. It was the Lady. Those mismatched eyes: one was so brilliantly glowing, _like a green sun_. The other was a pitless void, and she had to avert her eyes to keep her sanity. There was a horrible truth within that empty socket and she feared that she didn't want to know what that truth was.

But her master had no such reservations. "And who are you supposed to be, woman? Where are the masters of the city? Where are the guards?"

The Lady tilted her head curiously at them for a moment and then spread her hands about.

It was then that her master paused and truly studied the short woman before them. She couldn't be more than a girl, from her size and height. Her hips were not mature enough, nor was her chest. She had that sort of messy, straight, black hair that peasants often had and wore only a simple robe of some kind of itchy, uncomfortable looking grey material.

Yet lotuses were blooming at her feet. Each step she took, a flower shot through the tiles of the earth.

She made a motion, and those flowers came together. They fused into a gleaming, polished wood of a rich, dark red color, into a sort of chair. Then another motion made more, lined before her group.

Her master frowned then, "What are you? A witch?"

"My, my," a dainty voice chortled from underneath the grey hood that the Lady wore. There was something motherly about the voice, but it did not belong at all in the sense that it had an otherworldly tone. It was as if ten people were talking, where there should be only one. "Such disrespect. I can see who you are, of course. A Red Priest, am I right? My, my… and who is this?" The green eye turned to her.

She almost collapsed then, but perhaps that might have been better.

"She is of no importance," Growled her master. She has followed him long enough to know that he was only blustering now. There was fear in his eyes and a tremble in his voice. He often gripped the hem of his sleeves uselessly when he was nervous, as he was doing so now. "You will tell me what happened here, woman, or—"

The master had every right to bluster and bluff. The greatest from within the temple could wield the fire, but to destroy was always easier than to create. And even the great powers who held power over life and death were scarred in their own way. For a sorceress or witch, or some other power, to be so nonchalant, and almost friendly in her mannerisms was a frightening thing.

To be so much more human only was a mark of greater, unknowable powers, after all. These are those who can also inflict the greatest horrors unimaginable…

The Lady stepped forward, and a soft gush of wind brushed her master aside. It was like watching a person flick an ant off of their hand. It made her feel even more insignificant. The green eye peered into her own then, and she felt like the Lady was looking into her soul. "My, my…"

She bowed her head then in supplication. "Mistress…"

"No," The Lady stroked her cheek gently, her eye briefly staying upon her red gold choker. "Not mistress. Never mistress. I am… well, you may call me the Basilisk, as it is my title, or you may call me Green, as it is as close to a name as I have. Now, who are you?"

"Lady Green," She muttered, never looking up for fear of stepping out of place. "I am just a slave, I-I was called Melony and…"

"Shh, shh…" A gentle, impossibly soft finger brushed against her lips and silenced her.

Then the Lady stared down at her master.

A moment passed, and then another. Her horses shifted nervously, and a wind picked up. Then the Lady turned back to her, her eye wild with an overwhelming power and the wind around her swirling like a tornado. "You will go by a different name, the one you have already earned, but your teacher held back, until the time was right."

She frowned in confusion. What did the Lady mean? When was the right time? How come the fires did not tell her any of this?

"Come along then, I will tell you what has happened here, Priest of R'hllor." The Lady took a step and then paused. She turned about and looked quizzically at Melony and sighed. "And you too, come on, Melisandre."

The next time she talked to the Lady was nearly a hundred days later.

Her master had not allowed her near, for fear of the Lady of corrupting her. He was frightened of her Lady and confided in Melisandre of that much. Her serene amicability made the Priest of R'hllor turn first to his drinks, and then to their God. But even with the power of R'hllor burning at his fingertips, the master could not hide his moist undergarments from the subsequent times he visited the Lady. She was so… different. He wanted to instill that fear in Melisandre too. Even with such thoughts, her master still did not want to give ground, with the reasoning that a step given was already a battle lost.

But she had long since lost herself in her green sun. It was a fire that burned at the pit of her being, infusing her with a desire that she did not understand. The red flames could not explain them to her and neither could the black shadows. She kept to her studies, but even her teacher had acknowledged her as a Priestess of R'hllor and an adept Shadowbinder.

So now she stood beside her Lady, watching and guiding and aiding however she could. For the night was dark and full of terrors. For the Great Other was coming.

And she watched too the great city of Meereen, beside her Lady, having finally reunited with her after a hundred days. It was a majestic sight to behold. They stood atop of moving mountains, it seemed, for her Lady seemed to be without limits in making dreams into reality. So she watched as the create city of Meereen burn.

And Meereen burned under a hurricane of flames.


	4. Melony 2

"My Lady? Hello?" It had been two days since her Lady had awed the city of Meereen with something she called a 'firestorm', somehow aided by her plants. It had been two hectic days since, where she could barely even find her Lady at times. She was always teaching something new or establishing something strange, and never holding court like a proper queen. It frustrated Melisandre to no end, and she thanked R'hllor himself that her Lady slept in the same place, at the very least.

And thank R'hllor that the Lady Green slept in the place most appropriate of someone her stature. The City of Meereen is composed of hundreds of clay and brick homes, some large and some small. They were made in a multitude of years, some hovels having hundreds of years of history. But the greatest buildings in the city were the pyramids: the houses of the nobles and the rich.

After the onslaught of flames and the ensuing slave revolt, all of the pyramids were dismantled for the purpose of providing construction material for the city, save the largest one at its center. This giant structure provided a block of homes with shade at noon and it was topped off with an enormous, bronze statue of a sphinx.

Though her lady had not been in any part of the planning, Melisandre has already many former slaves who will be tearing the sphinx apart to mold a new statue: one of her Lady instead. They wanted to do it immediately, but with the Lady directing almost all the labor of the city elsewhere and without an appropriately large emerald to socket into the statue's eye, Melisandre forced the others to hold off this little side project…

It was strange though; the Lady should be in the throne room, or somewhere near it. She should be holding court, Melisandre couldn't find her. It was so… so… Melisandre wanted to break from her posture and wring her sleeves, and it was only her training and discipline as a Priestess of R'hllor that stopped her from acting so undignified.

Melisandre looked around the throne room—it had been turned upside down. Where there used to be a grand throne, there was just a polished yet practical chair, sitting behind a long, mahogany desk. There were stacks of scrolls and rolls of papyrus everywhere, along with several sheets of the new material that the Lady called 'paper'.

Idly, Melisandre peered down at her Lady's workbench (there certainly was no other word for such a torturous contraption, certainly). "Reports on the looting, reports on the census… what's this?" Melisandre blinked as a sheet of paper with strange doodles caught her eye.

There was a large page covered with little drawings of people titled 'Summons'.

One of them was old and wrinkly with a label, 'Warlock of the Basilisk'. Beside it were two little symbols of leaves and there was a little subtitle under it that read, "Tap to add one Black." What followed that was some scribbles of the new arithmetic numbers that the Lady taught, '1/1'.

Another picture was that of the warlock, which Melisandre realized looked surprisingly like the stories of what the Warlocks of Qarth would look like. Here, he had little… dots… or something of that matter all over his body. It read, "Infested Warlock of the Undying. Black: Return target creature as zombie. Sacrifice: explosion in large radius. 1/1."

Intrigued, Melisandre read further…

A third was a young woman who looked surprisingly like herself, titled 'Red Priestess of the Basilisk'. There were three little symbols of leaves, followed by the subtitle, "Tap to add one Red. Tap to Regenerate Creature—"

Just then, the Basilisk wandered into the room, with a strange, quilted skirt and a stack of papers.

"My Lady, I…" Melisandre paused before she could either explain herself or ask what this sheet of seemingly random scribbles was about and frowned. Her Lady was doing something strange again. "What… is that?"

"Oh? This is a kilt," The green-eyed girl replied jovially before spinning around. It might have not been so bad if she had been wearing something else, but all she had on were the scant few pieces of vines and earth that she called 'armor'. "It's a sort of battle-skirt, but I think it's pretty. I'm thinking about getting all the girls to… well, anyway, how're you doing, Melony?"

Melisandre knew she had to be the dignified priestess-advisor that was the role she saw in the flames, but sometimes the Lady made it really, _really_ difficult for her. She wanted to cry and whale futilely against the Lady's chest on one hand, and she wanted to just stare the Lady down sternly on the other. After a second of thought, she settled for pouting fruitlessly. There was no one else in the throne room of the pyramid, after all. "You said you'd call me Melisandre," She grumbled, having already tried every other means to convince her Lady to act properly.

"Eh, it's not a big deal, okay? Melony is such a pretty name," The Lady shrugged.

"It is the name I cast off and the name of a slave that I no longer am," Melisandre wanted to stamp her feet against the large, sandy ground, but she knew that too would be a futile effort.

The Lady rolled her eye and nodded in accent, "Fine, fine."

"Where were you, my Lady?" Melisandre asked dutifully.

The Lady smiled and reached up to ruffle Melisandre's hair, as if she were a babe. As it is her duty, Melisandre bore this with as dignity as she could (read: none). "Are you curious? You should call me Green when we're alone, Melony. My Lady makes me think of…" Her Lady paused.

In that moment, it was as if the realities of the world crashed down upon her and someone had dumped a bucket of icy water down her back. Her Lady's eye changed from her usual, joyful squint to a stare that only the scarred veterans of wars would have. It felt like the Lady was seeing something a hundred meters away, and it made Melisandre feel insignificant and small.

"Ah, well," Lady Green scoffed at last. She turned away, as if she had a chip in her shoulder, but she didn't talk about it any further. Instead, she continued, "I was setting up a hospital, if you want to know. We can't all just rely on the priests and priestess for healing… a temple might decide one day that something is heretical and then we'd lose that knowledge for centuries until it is discovered again."

"I… you sound like you are speaking from experience, my Lady," Melisandre watched her pace about. She took her place at a corner of the room and straightened her clothes.

"Well, sort of, here and there. Anyway, a hospital's job is to heal people, not judge if healing people is good or bad for their souls, and a temple's place is to be a place of worship. Specialization, you know, is more efficient, overall. Not that I'm an expert," Green added.

Not quite giving up, Melisandre asked, "But what of the sudden influx of Priestess in the city? I have not spoken with them, but by all accounts, there are more than any temple…"

"Ah, those, don't worry about them. Just know that they are loyal, alright? Anyway, what have you got for me today?" The Lady had turned back to her desk and began to scribble on papers left and right at speeds that caused Melisandre to doubt she even took time to read the contents of each page.

Melisandre wondered then why her Lady chose her, of all the priests and priestess to arrive. It was a strange notion, but it frightened her to think that perhaps her Lady could see further into the future than even her God, R'hllor. She fumbled for less than a second, because even if she was so young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, she was still trained to be the best. "An ambassador from the city of Yunkai has arrived and asks for an audience with you."

"Well? Let them in!"

"Right now?" Melisandre stared, slightly aghast. Scrolls and papers were littered everywhere, even making small piles around her desk! What kind of reputation was the Lady trying to perpetuate? It was insanity! But Melisandre sighed inwardly; her Lady was insane, perhaps, but she had the power to back it up. Nevertheless, she had to say something about that, "B-But this isn't proper!"

"And since when have we cared about decorum? Get them in already!"

The man who appeared was not the master of Yunkai, for it has many, many masters. It was a city ruled by an elite class of merchants and commanders—the so-called 'Wise-Masters'—but this man still stood out from the rest. He was rumored to be the richest of the merchants in Yunkai, and an apt man to represent them, though Melisandre could not help but look down on this ugly troll of a man.

His blood held no power, and he too had little in that category. Instead, all of his authority was derived from his deep pockets. But where did that get him? His eyes were the color of pus, a yellow that can only belie sickness. So too that he was so obese that he had four servants to carry him about, looking rather like a ball of human flesh. What's worse was that he smelled awful—a mixture of a thick stench of urine mixed with stale, unavailing perfumes. So many things were wrong about the man that Melisandre very nearly showed her disgust of him on her face.

But she knew better than to do that. Her appearance, as the girl closest to her Lady, was something that others judged and deeply affected morale. Instead, she stood back, in the shadows and watched the proceedings take place, as is her duty.

"Yezzan zo Qaggaz," The Basilisk leaned back and propped her feet onto her desk. She intoned the name as if she were bored of him already and her expression held the same message. "Welcome to Meereen."

"Yes, yes," Yezzan nodded softly before bringing up a yellow handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on his brow. "I have already been greeted by your city guards, Basilisk Queen. Might I compliment you on the splendid job of training your soldiers? They behave almost as good as if they were bought directly from the masters of Astapor."

"The Unsullied?" The Lady rose and swept herself up, unconcerned with the numerous servants and guards that followed Yezzan zo Qaggaz into the city. She seemed so nonchalant when she added as she raised a cultured eyebrow at the other man, "Yes. Yes, I have met them before in combat."

The other man nodded, "Ah, yes. I have heard that you used to be a competent pit fighter."

The Lady looked away. Her gaze glazed over, with a faraway, haunted look that was so different yet similar to the one she had earlier. It was as if she was reliving a lifetime of tortures. She paused, and the vast chamber fell to silence, with exception of the heavy, labored breathing of Yezzan zo Qaggaz. "Yes," her Lady acknowledge finally. "That was a better time."

"Better? Ho, ho, ho... surely you jest," Yezzan chortled, rather like an overweight, slime-covered slug than another human being.

"No, it really is. To be fighting for my life, I had no other worries. Ah, well… that was another life. Alright, you know what, it's been bothering me for a while since you arrived," The Lady suddenly strode forward and pushed the other servants aside, causing to very nearly drop the ambassador immediately. She gripped the rotund man by his fleshy shoulders and growled. "You know you got something wrong with your bladder? Let's see…"

"P-Please release me, woman! This is highly inappropriate—"

"Ah, I got it. See, this is what I don't like about not having access to White…" She muttered more to herself than to the man. Then she raise a brilliantly glowing green hand and plunged it into the ambassador's protruding stomach, where she moved her arm back and forth, as if she was searching for something.

All the servants and guards stared at her as if too shocked to move, but then Melisandre noticed the vines that had entangled their ankles to the floor.

"Ah, here it is!" Her Lady pulled her hand out with a wet pop. The glowing subsided a moment after. "Phew… alright, that should do it."

Yezzan zo Qaggaz stared at her, his face moist with cold sweat and white from fear. "W-What did you…?"

"Right, get out of those clothes so you don't smell like piss anymore and come back another day," The Lady grumbled as she wiped her hand off on a stack of precious papers concerning the census of the city. "You shouldn't have that infection anymore. Get him lots of water, and whatever. I'm not a professional, so I don't know. But I don't want to keep smelling that anymore, got it? Good? Good. Now scram, all of you."

Then she hurried the entire Yunkish entourage out of the pyramid.

"Phew. That used up a good half of my reserves. Healing other people just isn't the same. Now, let's see what I've got on my plate… got to budget this out so we can have brass pipes! It's been ages since I've got a decent bath and…" Her Lady turned to Melisandre for the first time since the Yunkish ambassador arrived and frowned. She tilted her head curiously at Melisandre, blinked, and adopted a rather playful (read: frightening) grin.

"What's wrong, Melony? Cat got your tongue?"

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This story needs more reviews.


	5. Warlock 1

I'll be honest: I'm not satisfied with the next snippet. If you guys can tear it up and make it better, I would be happy and love that. Anyway, not enough time and a lack of effort for this sort of thing right now. It's rather long for a short snippet that was planned. I had to omit a lot of things to keep it safe for the forum, tell me if I missed something, okay? Also had to skip a lot of the gory details that GRRM loves to go into (like that diarrhea scene, ewww!), so there's that too. Anyway, here it is.

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"Welcome to Qarth, Basilisk of Meereen," The Warlock of Qarth intoned. A sense of warmth filled his dead chest which he realized was pride and joy. He had not felt such emotions, or any emotions, in a long, long time, before finding the girl. So it was with particular amusement that he walked around she, who was chained to the center of the tower.

The tower within the House of the Undying was shaped in a perfect circle, its floor lined with ancient writing from the forbearers of its creation that have long since faded away yet the power still remains. It is within the center of the circle within circles that the young pit-fighter was chained, by her arms and by her legs, not by any true materials but by the power of the Undying.

"No, no, no…" The girl shook her head in denial. Her eyes searched for an escape, but she found nothing, for the Warlock allowed nothing. "It can't be… It can't be…"

Here was his place of power, and with her present, he could feel life flowing into his veins. He would keep her here forever, he realized, dead yet living. And with her here, he would live forever. With that in mind, a slow smile filled his dead, pale blue lips. "Oh, but yes, Basilisk," He replied gaily. Even with her as a source of power, there was no need to be rude. He would need for her to last all of eternity, after all. "You will be a guest in the House of the Undying, until the stars fade and the world crumbles to ruin. Resistance is a futile effort."

"No… No!" She lurched up and snarled at him, her spittle flew and a red rage filled her cheeks.

It was amusing to see her struggle, the Warlock laughed inwardly. But it was futile. "There is no need for that, Basilisk… of Qarth. Those chains cannot break."

She threw herself at him, but even with her neck stretched to the edge, she could not bite even his ankles, being so held back by the dark iron that gripped her limbs. "You lie! I will not be a slave anymore!"

He merely smiled in return. She would wear herself out in time and accept her fate.

But something sparked within her, and magic flew into the air. He could smell it, taste it on the tip of his blackened tongue with his dead taste buds. He felt the electric energy that would have made his hair stand on end, if he still had any. Goosebumps rose, but he still smiled, confident that there was nothing she could do.

She roared incoherently and she grew. First an inch, then a foot, and then a yard, she raged against his dark magic with a futility of life raging against death. But even when she grew to the size of a giant, the room grew with her and so did her chains. No matter how she thrashed and smashed to tear asunder the structure of the building, nothing seemed to be affected.

He nearly took a step back, startled only barely. So she had some knowledge of the arcane, he realized. Well, perhaps he would milk that knowledge from her in time. Still he smiled, knowing that she could not go on forever, and for however long she struggled, that power he would gain in time.

But she was worn out from the fighting and that last, weak attempt was just that. It was weak and so was she. After less than a minute of time, she fell to her knees. Her wounds bled and she began to sob quietly. "Why…"

He ignored her question, and instead entertained the thought of filling her with the same substance that all of the Undying utilized. Would her blood too turn blue, or was she special in some way?

"I see you have begun on the road of acceptance. It will come in time, Basilisk. And when it does, you will come to enjoy your tenure as a guest of the House of the Undying, for few have received this honor on such a permanent basis," He said, knowing that the girl was already slipping into unconsciousness. Still, rituals of the past must be kept, even if the sense of giddiness cannot be completely contained…

… Finally, it is the time for the rise of the House of the Undying. Finally, it is time for the Warlock of Qarth to take his place as the ruler of the greatest city that was and that ever will be.

The ghastly smile grew, showing his decayed, grey-blue teeth for the whole world to see.

Days turned into weeks, which then turned into months. The Warlock of Qarth grew in influence and power, as his magic too grew in size. The other insignificant merchant lords had no choice but to bend knee to his magnificence, for neither sword nor flame afflicted him and pain was a distant worry.

Within a hundred days of capturing the Basilisk of Qarth, the Warlock knew his investment into this venture had paid off in full. All the influence—in favors, money, and effort—that he expended to bring the little girl to Qarth for exploiting her resources has paid off. The whole of the city was dancing within his palm; a grey cloud of ash lingered over all of Qarth. Where there used to be a hundred gilded, round roofs, there now stood a hundred domes of black and blue. The atmosphere of the city had changed and the Warlock found it to his liking.

He now strode through the streets as if he owned each house and each store, each tile and each brick. None challenged him, for they knew they could not do anything. He was everywhere, after all, and all thanks to the power and life he draws from the body of the Basilisk, who stayed chained and tortured within the center of the House of the Undying.

To see the eyes averted and cast downwards as he passed, to see the lords eager to be at his beck and call, and to be the power that held Qarth… It was good to be King, the Warlock mused.

To that end, he strode in to the chamber of his prisoner. He had been so busy consolidating his power that he had little time to visit her. But it wasn't a necessary thing; she was chained by magic that grew stronger as she healed and he leeched off of her each day. Even if she had power, but what power did she have? All she could do is smash with brutal force—such actions were worthless in face of the might of the magic of the Warlock of Qarth.

With a thin-lipped grin, he slithered into the circular chamber.

She was there still, malnourished and ragged, covered in ashes and soot while barely hanging in mid-air by her arms that were chained to the opposite sides of the walls. The manacles cut into her flesh enough to bleed her, but that blood and those bruises have long since dried and faded. Some time ago, even the scars on her back that were the signs of a hundred stabs, had faded into what looked like a dim representation of a starry sky.

"Greetings and good morning, Basilisk of the House of the Undying," He intoned. He glided across the room soundlessly and triumphantly. She had stopped fighting against him days ago, even though she stopped eating weeks ago. But there was no need to eat in the House of the Undying, for all were already dead. "Come now, be polite and greet me back."

She looked up at him then, and he saw there was still a spark of savagery within her eye. Was it him or did it look like her pupil was glowing faintly? She bore her teeth at him, blackened gums and covered in the ash around her. "How about you go and kill yourself instead?"

"Tsk, tsk…" He tutted slowly, caressing her cheek in the manner of a master inspecting a disobedient pet. "I thought I trained your better than this, Basilisk. You will break and obey the Warlock of Qarth. There is no other future in store for you."

"HA!" She coughed, tiny drops of blood hacking out of her lips between dry, bloody chuckles. Blood dripped from her cracked lips and it surprised the Warlock faintly that her blood was still rosy red.

But it was no concern, not really. He sighed in disappointment.

"Ha, ha… ha…" She drooped against the chains.

"What is so amusing, Basilisk? Have you come to terms at last, or perhaps your mind broken from the strain placed upon you?" The Warlock blinked in surprise.

She shook her head and laughed again. It was a strange sound, and it did cause his heart to skip a beat, despite his efforts to reassure himself. She didn't look up when she finally replied, her body too weak to do so, presumably. "No, it's something else… You're making a mistake, ghoul."

"Ghoul?" He bristled. "I am the Warlock of Qarth, and I shall soon be the Immortal King of Qarth as well. You are just a foolish girl with no true knowledge of what you have. You will respect the House of the Undying!"

She looked up then, but it was a dark look. Her eyes shadowed by the bangs of her matted, straight hair emphasized the black glare and the glowing eye that stared up at him. For some reason, a shiver ran down his spine, even though his nerves have long since been killed. "You don't get it, do you? But then… I didn't get it either…"

He paced around her, curious, but knowing within his heart that she was just bluffing. She had cracked, and this was her last attempt to free herself. It was sad, pathetic, really, but he would indulge her, for he was ever the respected Warlock of Qarth.

"You think you've taken away my freedom. That might be true. I never had freedom in the first place. But you think you've taken away my weapons, my swords and my strength, with our magic. You think you are safe, with the power you have. You think your power secure and your position safe, perhaps even as the most powerful in this shanty town of a city." She laughed then, but it sounded more like a flock of sparrows nipping at his ears. There was an insanity that blossomed in her eyes and grew to split her face in a wide, twisted grin that seemed to cut into her skin. She laughed again, crueler and colder, more menacing than any sane person should be able to express. "But all you've done, locking me away, cutting me up and divvying my flesh and blood out to your zombies… all you've done to keep my strength locked away, and all this you've accomplished based on your nibbling off of my Mana… is remind me of my most powerful weapon."

"And what… would this weapon be, Basilisk?" He could not help but ask.

She laughed ever more like a hollowed husk than a human being then, and he could not help but think she should be killed. There was something ominous and unknown about her that should not be allowed to exist. "Ah… I had forgotten about it too. I've had to fight for my right to exist, it slipped my mind…"

With morbid curiosity, the Warlock inched forward, until he was only a step away from the girl. He was still confident in his ability and in the power of his deathly magic, but something compelled him to ask, with an expression of rapt attention, "And what is that?"

"It is the weapon which cuts deepest yet without edge, a weapon that I cannot lay aside," She muttered in the darkness. As she turned her chin upwards to stare at him, light swam in the room towards her green, glowing eye. "I have seen your magic, false magician, and I know your limits."

The Warlock rubbed his hands against his arms, shivering from a cold draft. He turned about, and began to walk briskly and mechanically.

"It is only a matter of time, time that you do not have."

Her voice followed him out of the chamber and out of the dusty halls. It followed him through the black streets of Qarth and through the mass graves of those who were sacrificed to power paltry sums of magic at his beck. It echoed through his ears even as he sat upon the ashen throne amidst the council of the Pureblood, who ruled Qarth under him.

No matter what herbs, what alchemical substance, or whatever potions he imbibed and whatever magical spell he casted, he could not get that insane grin out of his mind.

He did not know what it was that he was feeling, the cold sensation that gripped his heart. It was agony to bear, and it left him without rest in mind and soul. Soon, it felt like a thousand burning scorpions were crawling through his skin and biting at his flesh, but he could not stop it. This was no magic, but even as he tried to forget in sleep, he laid awake in denial. He was the Warlock of Qarth, the most powerful magic in all of Essos. He was the Warlock of Qarth…

He was the Warlock…

He…

The Warlock of Qarth stood at the round table, watching the Pureblood Lords argue and scheme. They sought his favor through petty actions. Some backstabbed others, while others tried to whisper poisonous words. They all accepted their position in life: under his sway and force. It frustrated him that she would not.

But as the rich and powerful of the city bickered amongst themselves, his mind wandered against his will. They had no idea of the pains he went through to keep his position at the top, and he knew he could not let them know. How much magic has he spent just to keep her in an enchanted sleep?

How many sacrifices did he use to cloud her mind?

He shook his head. Of course these uneducated fools would know; they are like cockroaches and rats, sniffing at him and waiting for him to show weakness. But he was the Warlock of Qarth, and he still held power over the city.

It was still an ashen yet expansive city, filled with activity, albeit much less than before. People lacked the certain enthusiasm as they once did, but that too was to power his magic further. So what if so many of the citizens were dead? They lived their second lease in this world under his power, more grateful to him than they can express. But they are thankful, even if their lives were consumed for his purposes…

Looking into their lifeless eyes, the Warlock smiled contently. The glassy, vacant eyes, lacking any sense of life or free will, were what lent him moments of peace. They helped him forget that he could no longer enter the… that place.

For her prison had become rife with life, against all odds. First, there was an irritating mold, which grew from nothing. Then there were tendrils of fungi, which seemed to grow from the dead. They paralyzed the living and consumed them until their husks had become but stems and leaves. And the abominable light was the worst of all… Each day, the sleeping prisoner's eye would glow brighter still, even though she should be experiencing the most horrific of nightmares.

What had he done wrong? He had not even constructed her dark dreams—such a thing was impossible and beyond his power. But he had forced her mind to trap her within the most horrific moments of her life, over and over again, to relive her worst nightmares forever.

That was the plan, but no matter what he did, things kept happening. Now… now he could not even enter the room, for fear of the twisted things that lived within and for the agony of standing within the light…

The hated light… It burned against his flesh. It made his nerves come alive and it made him feel pain. It was a light that should not exist in this world, a fire that should not burn.

He needed time.

Even as his skin seemed to rot and a thousand insects seemed to bite at his dead organs within, he still wanted to go on. He wanted more time in this world. Yes, he thought to himself quietly as he poured through the arcane knowledge of the forerunners of the House of the Undying. He needed to sacrifice more, more and more, so that she would be reduced to a quivering, sobbing wreck.

He sighed sadly; if only she did not struggle so. They could have had an amicable relationship, the two of them, master and slave. So what if she could never leave the chamber again? He offered her eternity!

Baffling, he sighed. The girl was baffling and strange. He would not call her horrific or terrifying. No, because even now he still denied that she inspired fear within his heart.

Ah, but his heart!

He knew just what to sacrifice next, to burn away her mind. Qarth needed some more room for its citizens anyway… none of the rabble would need their hearts as much as he needs theirs, anyway.

They would not understand…

… After the ritual was cast, the Warlock of Qarth crept into the House of the Undying. It has been a long time since he walked freely into these hallowed halls. The vines that crawled all over its walls were faded and withered. Ash once more runs freely through these tiles.

His grey silk robe brushed softly against the floor, and he allowed himself to be content.

The chamber was filled with hundred of dead things, barely even skeletons of what they might have been. Some were shaped strangely, he thought to himself, almost as if a poor parody of his form. Others were akin to the form of the dead, buried in the mass graves surrounding the House of the Undying. But they were all just dried up branches and dead leaves now.

At the center of the prison, her dark form lingered. Her skin was cracked and pale, covered in a sheet of grey ash. Her hair hung limply, covering her face with barely a slit open. She drew harsh and laboring breaths, as if she were on her death bed.

Good, the Warlock of Qarth smiled. She should suffer for all the trouble she put him through.

He paced around her, studying her and feeling a sense of warmth grip his chest. It was that sense of pride and triumph. It was back and he relished in it.

"Back so soon?" The dying girl rasped.

He nearly jumped. He had thought her trapped by her own mind. No matter, he thought. Perhaps it is time to offer an olive branch. "I feel you have suffered much, Basilisk. Perhaps now, you will accept my offer to become guest of the House of the Undying. You need not dwell within your chambers without comforts."

"Don't waste—" She coughed then, and dry flakes of blood and ash fell through her gritted teeth. Her head tilted up, and her green eye shone through the curtain of black hair with a vengeance.

Surprised and expecting a sting of pain, the Warlock took a step back. But there was no power in her glare. "You have no power here, Basilisk," He intoned confidently.

"Ah…" She smiled up at him. It was the wide, insane grin that haunted his thoughts and living nightmares. "Ah… but you aren't the only one who learned a thing or two, charlatan. A single drop is not enough, and even a hundred drops is lacking…"

The dead began to move at his feet. First the withered twitched, then the decayed shivered with movement and new life.

"But I have magic!" He protested piteously. The dead should die and stay dead, especially that which is killed by his magic! His lower lip quivered and his eyes darted about. A cold sweat rolled down his back, and he hated how alive he felt.

"And I have Magic," She replied with a wary grin.

Fresh, green sprouts of grass, trees and herbs began to sprout at her knees touched the ground, growing on top of the old and dead. The living and the dead reached up from the cracks and corners of the ground, curling and expanding like frameworks for veins and nerves and skeletons.

The Warlock retreated another step, "What is this?" He yelled, and then he tried to stamp out the life that grew. Every time he stomped and ground his feet against the living green that peeked through the tiles, ten more leaves reached through the stone. His hands shook uncontrollably, partly from his physical exertion and partly from the emotion he knew and hated so well. "What is this?!"

"Life begets life. Green always had the best ramp up…" She muttered with a crazy, stupid grin on her face. "What doesn't grow dies, this is true. You have killed my creations many times. But what dies grows the Tarmogoyf…"

He longed to wipe it from her face. In fact, he realized and wondered, why didn't he? He stepped forward and slapped her. Then he did it again, and again, repeatedly until he was sated. He panted for air and wiped away the sweat on his brow. Then he straightened himself and smiled to see now silly, insanity on her visage anymore.

"That… wasn't very nice. And that… was your free shot," Suddenly, her voice was no longer meek and weak. It grew gravelly and into the bestial roar of a monster of the desert. The stones grumbled and ruptured at his feet, quivering and quaking as the earth shook and the walls collapsed.

Even as he protested in his mind, he knew fear gripped his mind and heart like black ice. For that moment, he thought wildly that even death would be a kindness—

The plants rose to her and surrounded her, a monstrosity given physical form behind her. Its head smashed against the roof, and it pulled itself out, towering over the House of the Undying. It was a monster composed of the dead given form. All the dead, the dying, and the decomposed fused into a single entity of rot and life. It roared into the sky, with her atop its head, and proclaimed its place in the sun as the clouds of ash became assimilated into its being.

The wide, wicked grin stayed, however, despite all the other changes wrought by that awful, green light that seemed to empower all life that it touched.

"Now… my turn," She snarled throatily, with a mind warping light dripping out of her eye. Hatred filled her words with a clarity that pierced her insanity, and in that moment, the Warlock of Qarth knew fear, "I will give you the same chance you gave me, worm. I will take your planar and spiritual distinctiveness into my collection. Your magic will be adapted to serve me, forever. You once told me this, and I tell you in kind: resistance is futile, Warlock of Qarth."

For a single moment, he felt so terrifyingly alive, but he could not truly feel anything other an all-consuming fear. With such biological functions somehow restored, he soiled his robes just before his senses fell to darkness, until he was called again…


	6. Green 3

I could have settled on the lap of comfort. It was easy to do so when you have no competition in sight and you were the so-called top dog. But that wasn't my way anymore. I sought constant growth, constant revolutions and evolution and change. Besides, there was no point in hoarding away in squalor; I was not greedy nor did I want to be stagnant.

But Meereen was a dead place. It was a poor place for a capital or headquarters, even if this was only a temporary measure. I could make the grass sprout from the ground at my feet all day, and it would still not erase the fact that Meereen was on the edge between a desert and an ocean.

Still I tried, from the center of the city's power, at the center of all things in the core of the greatest pyramid.

I could see it and sense it: the meaning and history and life of the city, from here in its heart. Here was the place of power where others ruled Meereen! But what I saw imparted me with equal parts of horrifying hatred and deathly agony.

It returned to the concept of Mana, in the end.

Intellectually, I knew that Meereen was a city built upon the backs of slaves. It was evident from the towering, yellow pyramids, glowing in the light of the setting sun, to the dark, dry mining pits surrounding the city. This city was not a place of life. I knew this already. But to truly draw Mana from this place, I needed to tap into the core of Meereen and to come to an understanding.

The understanding must be unique, because it must be my understanding of this place. Others could read the words I impart, and they would be unable to draw even the slightest of fragments of light from this land, not that there was a cornucopia to begin with.

The truth of the matter was Meereen was a death camp.

I did not come to this conclusion immediately. It took me time to understand and remember what little I did of the lore of the Game of Thrones. Sometimes, if a place truly had Mana, understanding would come quickly. If I had more power, it would come instantly. But without either, I took the slow route.

I walked the streets of Meereen. I sought the places of worship, the places of residence, the places of living and death and trade and rest. I looked for all of that, and it did not paint a pretty picture.

My sensibilities were hurt by what I saw. I saw more people suffering, lying by the side of the road and waiting to die like abandoned puppies. But their eyes were not inherent cuteness; those hollow looks belied the desperation of the common people. They weren't even slaves…

… But slaves had it worse.

Upon my wanderings, I found it more common that the slave masters within the city turned to stricter and harsher means to keep their slaves from even thinking about rebellion. It was a dangerous, hideous cycle.

Yet it was utterly simple in what they did.

How did the slaves think of fighting back, when they never had enough to eat? I saw more exposed bone on a living person than should rightly be possible. Sadly, this too was not a common occurrence.

"How did this happen to you?" I once asked a man whose back had been burned off.

"It was after one of the more recent rebellions," He replied. I had to hide a wince, because I knew exactly which rebellion he was talking about. "The masters needed to make an example of us, and I was the most well-liked of their slaves."

"Most… well-liked?" It was baffling at the moment, and I had hoped that it would be so to others too once I was done with this world. But I must have frowned or given some kind of social cue, because he responded immediately.

"It was not the worst," He laughed harshly. "The well-liked slaves merely got some pain and torture. The workers and the extras… they had it worse than us. Besides, the masters are better. They are whole and blessed."

It was sickening, and I thought to myself that I had to seek out the ones who experienced the worst of this sort of slavery. But something didn't seem to sit right with me. Something dark loomed over the horizon about all this, because who truly warranted such needless torture? The slave masters of Meereen were owners who saw their slaves as property—to needlessly damage their own property seemed… illogical.

But I found my answer soon enough.

My stomach felt like a sinking pit which my heart fell through. Which slaves were worth the tortures that might be worse than blatant mutilation by fire? Only the slaves who already rebelled were worth that…

I found Sarah there, in one of these camps, and I forgot I was not utterly mortal and human like them, and I emptied my stomach onto the orange sands at my feet.

The ways her body was twisted… they were not natural. I did not look at her more than I needed to. I couldn't bring myself to, even though I barely knew her for a few days. So she had lived through the beatings, in the beginning… I didn't know. But she didn't live long afterwards.

From what I found out, from other slaves—who were made guards and overseers for their loyalty to their masters later—Sarah died in pain. That was all I needed to know, but I had an irrational need to know more. The fires of curiosity within my heart could not be quenched with anything less.

Some rational part of me knew that the role of abusive prison guards could be forced upon people, and they would adapt to it quickly. But that was in the wind. I didn't care, not really. Even though they were commanded by their masters to…

The followers of my first revolt had been forced to fight for scraps of food. They were not starved completely, but they were starved enough that it was sickening. The masters wanted them to turn on each other, and they did, when they stopped seeing the people who fought for freedom beside them as friends and family, but as competitors for food.

Some tried to escape. Their families and friends were the ones who suffered, but they were kept alive well enough that the next attempted escapees were reported to the guards. Then both the escapees and the others involved were all punished. Then the cycle continued, as the people so degraded grew more and more desperate.

It was enough to make me question if it was even worth saving this world. Why not just leave this place and jump into the unknown infinities? For humanity to have fallen this low, I saw this and saw into the dark heart of Meereen. I felt like I was looking into a dark abyss. Nevertheless, I pulled and planted.

I could taste the bitter emptiness of the lack of Mana at the tip of my tongue. But behind that thick film, I tasted the horrid blackness and the unyielding whiteness warring against each other.

So like the aspects of myself…

At that moment, I found myself hating the author of this series and hating myself. How I wished this world did not exist! It is a mirror darkly reflecting my own conflict with my other selves! If only I never landed on this plane, then I would not have seen this sort of thing…

But this was not something unique to this world. I knew this sort of thing existed in my plane of origin. I knew this is a result of the mix of Black and White Mana. It is not so special that these humans were different from other humans on other planes. It…

I had a cry then. It was not a good cry, because I knew I couldn't fix this, not with the little tidbit of power in my hands.

I needed more.

I needed to grow exponentially. I need so much. I need more help, more wizards to aide me, I needed to raise the technological level to a point where slavery would never happen again. I needed, I needed, and I needed.

So even now, I tried to urge life to grow where only loose sands were. I forced every ounce of what I had within me, everything that I stored and saved up, into investing into the future. I didn't care that I would share it with others.

In fact, that was an interesting idea. Why didn't I share both my ideas and my Magic with this world? What could possibly go wrong?

With that in mind, I placed these words, from my experiences of drawing Mana from Meereen to start, onto paper…


	7. Green 4

Green 4

I was floating through darkness. The world spun beneath me and I watched as life grew and died. I saw all things come and pass.

The heated orb above me glowed down on my skin. It was hot, blindingly so. I wanted everything for escaping this misery, but if not for my own lack of mobility. I was trapped and suffocating and unable to do anything as the world spun and moved without me.

But two titans drew my eyes. They were immutable beings who towered over the tiny, glassy orb that was the world and circled the giant, golden globe of the sun. The sun itself was a magnificent manifestation of craftsmanship. Its skin was carved with the lineages and stories of the world. I saw stags spring from dragons, a thousand lines of horses run and tumble, and even seven great houses. At the moment, the stag smashed its horns against the claws of the dragon…

At the moment, the titans were equal…

One was light, hungry for fuel. It paid me no heed and focused on only burning away the taint of its opponent. It was a giant of white light, so bright that I cannot look directly at it. The celestial bodies around it were puny and merely decoration to this grand specter.

The Other was the personification of the absence of light. It was unseen and its body both cast and took in no shadows. To see it was to see the void within a dark abyss—impossible in its own way. But this being saw me, in its crystalline eyes of ice and its lips parted to show the dead flesh of winter, a putrid mouth housing a rotten, frozen tongue that had grown black with frost and bloated with death.

**I SEE YOU**.

No… No! Wisps of light spun around me, tiny lines of green trying to make a shield, but too little, too late. I cannot hide.

**I AM THE DARKNESS WITHIN HEARTS. I AM DESOLATION GIVEN FORM. I AM THE MADNESS OF SELF-DESTRUCTION. I CANNOT BE AVOIDED.**

**YOU CANNOT ESCAPE.**

Its limbs reached for me. I saw that, but I could not truly see the being's actions. It seemed to be beyond time, but perhaps it was only millions of years old. There was no difference from my perspective. I could not understand the geometry of its body; such a thing was beyond me and beyond human thinking.

**I AM THAT WHICH YOU FEAR. I AM COMING. SUMMER IS DYING. WINTER IS COMING.**

**I AM THE HEART OF DARKNESS.**

I panicked, shaking my head and trying to move, but no. I was never fast enough, I was never strong enough. I was always the weakest. I was always the weakness in my own soul. I was…

**I AM THE HEART OF DARKNESS. AND I SEE YOU, PLANESWALKER**.

**I AM THE HARBINGER…**

I woke on my silken bed, covered in sweat. I gasped for air as if I had just dived underwater for minutes upon minutes. 'This is my bed in Meereen. I am not dead. This is my bed in Meereen. I am not dead. This is my bed…' I repeated this mantra within my head for minutes, until my heart beat slowed and my breathing stilled. I remembered that I wasn't human, not completely, but that dream was so vivid. It was frightening, because I thought I had an idea as to the identity of the two beings that towered above me.

They were like exploding suns compared to the candle in the wind that was my power. It was ghastly and not humbling at all. All I could feel was a cold hand gripping my heart.

"My lady! What's wrong?" Melisandre burst into my chambers.

If I had taken more time to admire my surroundings, I would have thought I haven't done bad for myself. This chamber was at the heart of the great pyramid, which laid at the heart of Meereen. It was a towering chamber more than twenty meters tall, with golden drapes and green silks hanging from every edge and every corner. If I were totally honest, I might even call this chamber a tad too grand.

But it was a small ego boost, and a small respite in light of the situation, which I took a moment to enjoy and forget about the dangers that lie just beyond reality. "I'm alright, Melony. It was just a nightmare."

"You don't have nightmares, my lady. It must have been a vision. Was it a vision from the Red God?" Melisandre asked excitedly. The girl was nothing like the sensual, dominating, and suave woman I remembered from the television show or the books. She was so… eager.

I pouted indignantly. "Who says I can't have nightmares?"

"It's just… that is so mundane," Melisandre paused and frowned down at me. She looked like a child who just found out Santa Claus did not exist. "I don't think you can have nightmares, my lady."

"Well…" I really didn't want to retort. She was only having my best interests at heart, even if she was being stupidly overbearing. And it was flattering that she thought so highly of me. "… Well, I do. I've gone through too much to not have any nightmares."

She stayed silent, watching me expectantly.

I rolled out of bed. It was a large bed, larger than even the king-sized beds I've seen in Ikea and the like from my past, past life. It was much less comfortable too. "Alright," I muttered. I pushed my hair back. It was moist with cold sweat, and I could still feel chills run down my back as the vivid images of my nightmare resurfaced over and over again to the forefront of my mind. "Alright, they say talking about things is good for you. Well, I just had a nightmare, but I suppose you can call it a vision, iff you must."

"How so, my lady?" Melisandre asked impatiently. She paced around my bed, laying out the dress she picked for me today and all but started to dress me.

"It was a vision of your Red God and his enemy clashing. The Red God couldn't or didn't see me, so preoccupied with his battle, but the Other could. He saw me, Melony." My hands shook. The vision, if it was such a thing, shook me. Was this what it felt like to be in the presence of gods, even for a single moment?

Melisandre's skillful hands paused in their ministrations. She frowned at me again, but then she simple shook her head. "My lady, such things are above my position. I am just an acolyte… even if you raise me to a station above my own, the matters of the Gods are not my concern."

This did not sit well with me. "But you worship the Red God. You follow the god of fire and ash. You will do what he commands. How is this not your concern?"

Melisandre stopped entirely and placed her hands on my shoulders. She looked into my eyes and I saw deep pools filled with pain. She scooted up beside me, just as she slid a thicker robe of green silk onto my back. Then she sighed. "My lady, in my experience as your confidante I have… seen much. But even before this, when I first arrived at the Red Temple, I was a child. I didn't know the way of the world."

"I know this and I don't—"

"Listen, my lady," Melisandre cut me off. This was the first time she had done so. She did it with such seriousness that I could even hear a click of my teeth as my jaw shut close. When did she grow so… dominating? "My lady, when I first learned to wield the power of R'hllor, I… wanted to inflict pain upon the world similar to what I experienced. It was unfair, I had thought. But it also happened that I was trapped in a temple, surrounded by those with powers equal to my own. So what could I do? I sneaked out, when my duties were complete, and threw my anger into other things. I could have thrown myself into my studies and my duties as I do now. But I was… stupid, young. Instead, I was petty, and burned the insects at my feet. Do you know what that is like, my lady?"

"Well," I muttered. It wasn't something unfamiliar. Who hasn't taken a magnifying glass to an anthill before? Human children were some of the most sadistic creatures in the multiverse, and it showed when we… But I never had such control over fire that I knew Melisandre had. "Perhaps?"

"But that is what the gods are to us, my lady. We are just insects to the whims of beings beyond our power. I could bluster and bluff in front of the masses about the will of R'hllor, but the truth is we understand too little of the will of the gods. They do not speak to us as mortals of flesh, but through visions." Melisandre paused, and took a gulp from one of the many cups of alcohol at my bed stands. "No matter how I burned the ant hills, no matter how I flooded them or crushed them, those insects would return and prostrate themselves before me. They will still pray to me, in hopes that no more torment will befall them. I may show them things, but I cannot communicate with them. I am as alien to them as they are to me. That is… the truth of the world. R'hllor is as alien to the Red Priests as the Red Priests are to him. That is what I have learned in my time at the temples. The world is harsh and unfair. The night dark and full of terrors. We can only struggle to survive or lie down to die, though can only hope the gods who stand above us don't flood or burn us as we do insects."

I blinked. I turned upwards for a brief moment, and hoped the Enemy and the Red God were not paying attention. It couldn't be helped, it was instinctual. I suppose I was a little human, if I still felt such fears. "Right."

"Right. Now then, my lady, are you ready for the day's reports?" Melisandre smiled with sickly sweetness. She had never complained, but I think perhaps making her do a lot of my paperwork had made her angrier at the world than the 'Melisandre' of the stories I was more familiar with.

"Alright, what's the first thing on the agenda?" I asked.

"Well, there is a power-struggle in Yunkai. When you killed the leaders of the city, you did not leave anyone in charge. Now it is a city that has been split between several large families." Melisandre grumbled. "If you want to retake the city, you will need to start from the beginning. They…"

"Let me guess, they sent me the head of my last messenger," I slapped my forehead. Ugh. Alright, it's time to get up and forget about the disturbing image of gods Melisandre painted for me. I jumped out of bed and shrugged on my clothes as I power walked to my throne room. "Alright, alright. I'll take care of that later. They will bow when I arrive."

Melisandre made a soft, choking noise.

"Oh, don't tell me…" I grumbled. I could guess what happened. Ambition did strange things to people, as did money and power. They forget their morals and their person, thinking of things that should not matter all that much.

"Of the great houses, five have new heads, while two merchant houses have been wiped out entirely. Two others have followed you to Meereen, as you know. They expect to be compensated for their support," Melisandre droned on. "My lady, may I offer a suggestion?"

I paused. "If you want me to burn them all, well… to be honest, I don't really feel like opposing that suggestion anymore. But let's put that off until later. More importantly, how many have you recruited for the new college?"

Melisandre fidgeted. "I… I was unable to meet your standards, my lady. Too many have appeared to learn your ways, but only very few have the aptitude."

To be honest, to be even able to manipulate Mana in this dry, dry world was an accomplishment in of itself. I swung my legs over the side of my throne and sat myself down in a lazy pose that was more in place if I were sitting on a giant beanbag. "That's fine. Have the college be at the foot of the pyramid. Houses of the dead and of the kings have power, and all that."

"They have been gathered since yesterday, my lady," Melisandre reported dutifully.

"Oh? How many, exactly?"

"Three hundred, forty-nine youths. There is an additional excess of five hundred who have potential, but they are older, and…"

I waved it off. "That's fine. Wait. Did you say you gathered them since yesterday?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Are they, what, waiting outside?"

"Yes?"

I ground my teeth together for two seconds before taking a deep breath. Then I walked out, towards the balcony. "Let's see—"

As I walked to the edge of the Pyramid and allowed the light of the sun wash over me, a scattered sound of cheering greeted my morning. I stared down at some thousand or so people, each so eager to learn. All of them could harness the very basics of Green Mana. It was a brutal means to start, but better than nothing. Perhaps it wasn't so bad that there was an entire grove of oaks and all sorts of trees and foliage around the Pyramid, but I still thought making them waiting for a whole night was a tad… much.

"Greetings," I called out to the people—my citizens. My mouth felt dry and I cleared my throat for a few seconds. What did I want to say to them? What did I expect from them? What the hell did I even call my college to begin with? Dizzily, I continued, "My people! Welcome to… the Academy."

_I hope I make you proud, Urza._


	8. Green 5

Green 5

The students studied in rows, each concentrating on their own studies. They have com far in the weeks and adapted quickly—those that were in the right age group. Children were the easiest to mold, they absorbed lessons on discipline and tradition far quicker than those who washed out.

Oh, there were many who I could not teach; I put them to minor management positions, and they were happy enough with their lives. It was sort of like washing out of the Jedi Order; I put those too old to be molded into my little soldiers I put to managing farms around Meereen. They could nurture plants with the droplets of Green Mana they could harness.

That was good enough for me and good enough to feed the people.

I thought we were in the thousands or tens of thousands at most. But the city was much, much larger than that. Before I set upon the agriculture of Meereen, there had been more than one riot consisting of hundreds of people, not starving exactly, but expecting to starve soon. I had no doubt with the power of the Red Priestesses, I could find the ringleaders and beginnings of these food riots, but I didn't want to prevent them. With food coming in, they would stop on their own, right?

Now I had twenty classrooms filled with students, studying and attempting to learn to harness the powers of the arcane. They sat in rows, unknowing that I was watching them from wood roof over their heads. I had built the structure like a large factory warehouse, about four stories tall, but the classrooms and experimenting chambers open to the students were only on the first floor.

My students guessed what was above them. Some of them thought there were hidden caches of knowledge above and others thought the chambers were where the human sacrifices were stored. It took me a moment to realize how deeply embedded the aspect of 'human sacrifice' was in the concept of magic in their culture.

The truth was something much more mundane. I simple hadn't finished filling in what was above their heads. It was amusing to watch them this way too, from the catwalk. Today's assignment was animating… corn. Students were each given a stalk to give life and animate into a…

… Corn elemental.

Silly, wasn't it? Well, students had to start somewhere. Most could only make something small—no more than kernels moving in tandem. It's a small thing no taller than a foot, but it do some light lifting, if needed.

That wasn't what I was watching for though. Their lack of progress is something disappointing, but expected.

I admit it; I was a bit of a control freak and obsessed with micromanagement of my students. When I was watching them, I was not just trying to amuse myself. Now, that was part of it—I didn't want to deal with all those wishing to be power brokers in the city—but I was looking to see who would excel in my classes.

I wanted innovators. I wanted competent wizards. I wanted them now.

But one of the imprints the modern world left upon me was not just promoting meritocracy. I was also doing background checks on my students. I didn't trust them. And why would I? They were being given powers beyond anyone had wielded in hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

Some stood out as ambitious. This was good. I wanted ambitious, as long as their judgment wasn't too clouded. Some stood out as children of the aristocracy. That was… fine. They were few in number, and I wanted to get rid of this idea of nobility. Equality for all would be great, but I had to take it all one step at a time, no? Some stood out as merchant princes, or what have you. To be honest, I couldn't bring myself to care, as long as they didn't leave. Not yet anyway.

But what incentives did I have to keep my students here? I told them they would have a better life than their parents. I told them if they excelled, then they would become heads of research and industry. If promised power, purely and simply, if they stayed with me.

There was an allure of the mystery yet to be known—I knew that I had knowledge enough to fit a thousand lifetimes of research, as shattered as my memory was.

None of that really matter much though. If they tried to leave… well, they can't, not yet. In the lore of Magic the Gathering, there was a certain conclave that I have come to respect. Maybe the Green was affecting my mind. Maybe it was just how this world was influencing me. Or maybe my beliefs just changed…

My students were all ethnically from Essos. They had deep tanned skin and dark, curly hair. Some had lighter skin than others, being born into wealth rather than the lives of slavery that the majority of my students were from. But there was always an exception.

One of them was different, a boy really. But he spoke with his mother each day in hushed tones that even my spores strained to record. He sneaked away sometimes, and sometimes she sneaked to him. He had blonde hair, striking, hard features that were not unattractive, truth be told. But I didn't like people sneaking around my school.

Only I'm allowed to do that!

I strode into his room within the student dormitories. Students were allowed their own rooms for experimentation. They were small by modern comparison, but comfortable and a luxury for the people of this age.

There he sat, working by candlelight and trying to make seeds sprout. Green wisps leaked from his fingertips, surrounding the small stack of crop seeds on his desk.

Given time, roots would form and stretch out like reaching fingers.

Given more time, the boy might even make a single tree from this strange experiment—a tree that would bear peaches, apples, and acorns.

"Castel Rivers," I said loudly.

The boy shook, startled. He jumps out of his chair and lands sprawling on the wooden floors, no doubt startling his neighbors in turn. He looks up at me, his blue-green pupils the size of pinpricks. His hands shook and he made to protest, but no sounds came out of his mouth.

"No, that's not right, is it?" I frowned lightly before walking forward. For each step I took, he leaned back an inch, until his back was against the wall. To look at him now, not even twelve years old… when did he leave the Seven Kingdoms? Was he even born when his parents escaped? "Now, that's not it. You aren't a bastard, are you?"

"W-What do y… you… My lady, p-please…"

I wonder, what exactly did he see in me that inspired such fear? I had not tried to inspire that sort of fear in so long. Was it the stories the students tell? Something about washouts being sacrificed to some kind of green goddess? It was just a silly rumor, with no basis in reality at that.

"I-I don't know what you are speaking of," Castle stood up, gathering what little confidence he had. His knobby knees shook, and it was really a pathetic sight. He hadn't washed yet either, most of the students didn't, having worked so long with the dirt and the seeds within them.

"Some now, don't lie to me."

"I… I don't…"

"My patience is not infinite," I growled more animalistically than I intended. I took another step forward. I was so close now; I smelt the pheromones he emitted. Fear wasn't the only emotion he felt. There was confusion there, and a chaotic swirl of many thoughts.

His eyes fell.

I sighed. I didn't like forcing people, and maybe I was wrong to make him reveal his lineage, but his house was damnably famous, in Westeros. "Castel Reyne, where is the pride your ancestors had in your house?"

His face was red, and… were those tears? He sniffled. "It died with them."

Silence prevailed in the room. Neither of us spoke. I didn't really prepare for the hatred he had for his house. There was venom in his voice that spoke of unreasonable hatred.

"Lady Goddess…" He tried to speak.

I placed a finger on his lips. I couldn't very well show weakness, right? Not as a ruler, and not so in private. I shushed him, and he stared up, a strange mix of wide, puppy-dog-like eyes and a wolf-like frown. "I care for my people. You know what, right? You are one of my people now, Mister Reyne."

He nodded, but he didn't say anything. His lip parted, but his jaw just hung there strangely enough.

"Do you know my goals? I haven't been very subtle about them, Mister Reyne. I want to destroy the nobility. It is a relic of a bygone age. You know of how I feel about the whole idea, don't you, Mister Reyne?"

Again, he nodded silently. He blinked away his tears and wiped his eyes on his dirty sleeves, but then he stared back up at me with those searching, judging eyes.

"So tell me, Castel Reyne. Tell me your story, prove yourself. Do you think you have a place in this world I want to make? A world without borders, without divisions," I muttered. There had been theories about that being the next stage of development when I was on Earth, I think. Someone had said something about that to me once, that even nations were an obsolete idea, in time. Seeing the boy's uncertain expression, I gripped his shoulders and forced him to look into my eyes. "Tell me, Castel Reyne of the House Reyne. Do you think yourself worthy?"

"… I want to be." He replied at last. Truer tears rolled down his cheeks. "I hate them. I hate… I hate all of them. I want to be worthy… please, Lady Goddess. Please… I am. I am…"

Then it all came out, like a dam that just broke.

He continued to cry and talk through his sobs, "I hate my mother. She wants to return and get revenge, but all she thinks about is ruling over people like they are slaves by another name. I… I lived like a slave all my life. I hate it. I hate them. I hate the Lannisters. I hate…"

"There there…" I patted the boy's back awkwardly. Some Green Mana poured out in my attempt to sooth him. Inwardly, I screamed. What the hell do I do with a crying, twelve-year old _boy?_ Girls, I can deal with, but boys? Do boys even cry? Argh. But I was more curious than I was socially retarded—I think I've come a long way from where I've started, actually. "How did you survive?"

"Father… Father was just a cousin. Father was supposed to be exiled or to take the black, but he left. But I only have Mother now. And all Mother wants…" He growled through his gritted teeth, sorrowful and mad.

"Just… rest. Learn. Do your best. You don't need to have magic to become one of my generals; lectures you attend teach more than such things. Leadership is important, critical thinking, creativity and… well, look for what you might want to do most, and go for that. You have a choice now." I was speaking partly from the company line, so to speak. My lips moved as I trained it, but I couldn't think of what to truly say.

"… Choice…" The Green Mana took effect, and the boy dropped like a sack of potatoes.

After I pulled him into his bed, I dragged myself out._ Pull yourself together! You're a planeswalker!_ I found my hands shaking from the ordeal.

Melisandre was outside, waiting for me. She was frowning, and that frown deepened when she saw me. "Is that snot I see all over your front, my lady?"

"Yes?"

She sighed. "That is a silk robe worth a chest of silver and gold, my lady. Now it's…" Seeing my expression, Melisandre quickly changed the subject. "Was this all really necessary, my lady?"

I smiled at her and petted her silly head. "Of course, Melony. I didn't lie; I do care for my people… more so if I'm investing in their education. You never know, each one of them could be important one day."

She turned away, but I knew she was pouting. Sullenly, she muttered softly, "The fires didn't show me anything like that."

"Always in motion, the future is," I replied. Melisandre wasn't convinced, so I added, "Look, even if you did see into the flames, they could be misinterpreted. They could be wrong. Even the gods aren't all knowing."

Melisandre frowned. "And how would you know this, my lady? Didn't you just…"

"Yes, yes," I nodded and waved that off. I didn't need to be reminded of my nightmares. "But there are ways around everything and the gods aren't all powerful. Powerful, they are, but… well, at the time, I was at my lowest point in a long, long time. You know it was just after I…" I made a motion with my hands. I didn't really know how to phrase it. I hadn't exactly brought magic into the world, but it was as close to creating magic in this world as I could possibly get without actually doing the deed.

"Yes... The Awakening…" Melisandre acknowledged.

"Is that what people are calling it these days? Well, you're the one writing the textbooks, I suppose." I shrugged. I led Melisandre away, back into the heart of my domain. We were in my chambers again and alone, with only my Warlocks and Red Priestesses watching like statues. "I've been saving up."

"Saving up?" Melisandre's brow creased in a cute way that made me to want to just pet her and tell her everything was fine. It was hard to resist that urge.

I smirked and reached a hand into my blinded eye. Then my fingers dug into my flesh, and I pulled from the seemingly empty socket. "Yes. Witness… power."

In the lore of Magic the Gathering, there was an elemental of Green Mana, called Omnath, the Locust of Mana. Its power allowed it to store Green Mana and eat up the power of worlds. I never reached that far—this world was too dry and empty for that. Instead, I had fitted something similar to its properties into my socket, an Omnath Junior, so to speak. Then I tied it to my soul, and killed it when I… when the Awakening happened.

Now, Meereen was not yet an ocean that Serra's Realm was nor was it an entire world of Mana that my largest creation was. But Meereen was a forest. Its surroundings were forests. Everything about it was greenery. The moisture and bountifulness of the land reached deep, and it seeped with Green Mana.

In essence, it was my oasis in a desert.

And this second, more efficient being that I had just pulled out of my now-empty eye socket? It had not been trying to collect droplets from a desert; it had been collecting barrels of life giving power instead.

So I opened my palm and allowed the power I had gathered up to swirl like a green sun. The green sun lifted into the center of the throne room and flared to life.

Melisandre stared, wide-eyed and gapping.

"Well now, don't just stand there, ask me what it is, Melony! Ask me what I intend to do! Ask me for a hug!" I giggled, slightly high off of the pure energy that burned in front of me.

"W-What is it…?"

"Ah, well, I'm taking a leaf out of one of my equals. He ah, created a goddess to fight the… um… demons or vampires, you know what, Melony? It's probably better you didn't know. There are terrors out there that you're best off not knowing about." Instead, I turned to the power. It radiated with a heated light that was addicting to breathe in. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to stare into the bright abyss and lose myself in it. But I brought myself out of the trance—there was important work to be done. I wouldn't—and couldn't, in my opinion—create a child again. Losing my girls was too painful. It was a loss I couldn't forget about, a wound that would not heal. No, I needed something to carry out my will and protect and unite the world while I pursued my own agenda. "See, it's great that there's already a sort of cult around the Green Goddess, whatever the hell that is… I'm just giving it form."

"… My lady, maybe this isn't such a good idea… to temper with the realm of gods, to _create_ a goddess? This is…" Melisandre tugged on my sleeve and begged, but I didn't really hear her anymore anyway.

The process had already begun. Avacyn was an indestructible goddess, but she took form of only an angel. I knew of those who were supposed to be truly gods too. They drew off of their worship. I needed both, and I need something that could not be so whimsical like the Greek gods.

**FIRST, I GIVE PURPOSE…**

Power poured from me. I wove an epic enchantment that I had only theorized about before. Something that is anchored to this entire plane and drew from a concept was not enough. But it needed reason, it needed intellect-

**THEN, POWER…**

Power was easy. Power was what I sought so much, so long and so hard. Of all the magic within my disposal, seeking power was easiest. I couldn't twist my own being—will and soul and all—into such a restricting form, but my new creation would take that on. She would draw from worship. She would give willingly to those who worshipped her. She would be the ever-present form that personified her purpose and was the personification of her element. I wove those thousand enchantments into the world…

Thankfully, this wasn't all experimental. I had seen this enchantment woven once before. A long, long time ago, in a plane far, far away… it seemed like a life-time ago that I witnessed Serra's Ban. But now I am doing so similar, for a purpose that isn't all that different…

**FINALLY, FORM. WITNESS, INFINITY…**

Power, power, power… such intoxicating force encircled me and wound around me. How could I let it go? It was strange to think that so much of what I commit was used for form, but without form, the Goddess only exists in thoughts and dreams. Without form, there is nothing material.

Broken down, it was one parts purpose, five parts power, and six parts form. Even combined, it wasn't enough to impose a universal rule like Serra had, it was only… stealing a concept and giving it form. If I was stealing it from nobody however, was it still stealing? So much of this green miasma pulsated around me. My mind was feverishly heated and I could barely see the blurs that defines the lines between colors and reality.

I yelled into the air, "You see me? You see this? You bring oblivion? I'm not going to fight you on your terms. You're going to fight me on mine!"

… I will admit, I was slightly insane on power. It had been years since I tasted such Green Mana, and it was slightly tainted by the Red and Black that were also now at my disposal.

Maybe it did influence my mind. But I prefer to think that I acted on my own.

The green sun flared and dimmed, until it was only a golf ball sized orb again, which I popped back into my eye socket. At the center of the room, a new creature uncurled itself and stared up at me.

Her body was white marble with green highlights. She was covered in a robe that peered into another dimension of space, with the light of stars impossibly deep within like some kind of eldritch being willed into existence. Her eyes were two large emeralds, bright green in color, unlike the tiny twinkles scattered all over her loosely woven robe. Her hair was as black as night, and there was a similar depth within. Marble wings stretched out from her body, and she genuflected wordlessly as she saw me.

"The Green Goddess, the Goddess of Nature and Knowledge, the Preserver of the World," I intoned, each enchantment and piece of spell work draining me to the soul and empowering the creation further. She grew in height as devotion poured into her and belief that powered her cycled out to empower those who followed this mantle. "I name you Lilith."

It… she… acknowledged me after a moment. "Creator… Mother…"

I flinched, but she was so young then, she curious and devote that she took no notice.

"Instruct me, Mother," She said again.

I hurt me every time she said that. I didn't want a daughter. I only wanted a machine to further my goals. But what was done was done… it would be too impossible to return her to into the ball of Mana that she was, now.

Besides, if I must suffer my memories for the people of this world to live better… wasn't that worth it?

I nodded. "Become the Dawn, Let None Fear the Night. Bind the World. Lead Humanity. Grow, Lead, Learn, Teach." I paused, and then added, "I will call upon you, when I need you. For now, see the world and hear your followers. Spread."

"Your will, I will." Then Lilith grew. She stood and walked out of my halls, and with each step she grew taller still. With each step, her image seemed to fade into the world, until finally she was outside and her being was the night sky.

Did I find the screams surprise and worship of my citizens hilarious? Maybe. But they didn't distract me from the thought that I had just let loose something I couldn't control. Even now, the words of the enemy vibrated in my skull.

**—I BRING OBLIVION**—

I shuddered, before turning to the Warlock.

He was a creation of Green Mana, bound to serve my will. I gave him no room for freedom; I trusted him not at all. But I allowed his mind to work and he served me well in preparing my forces. Looking at him, I felt so worn out, having used up all the power that I saved up for months. Tiredly, I mumbled to the wrinkled zombie, "Now then, let us discuss the campaign against the Dothraki Hordes."


	9. Melisandre 3

Melony 3

It has been a long, long three years, Melisandre sighed. From the moments she met her mistress, she knew her life would be different from what was planned and what the fires told to her. It was a memory she still thought back to fondly of. Her mistress had walked through the jagged rocks that were once whole pillars of stone as though they were grass. To see such wanton destruction wrought before her and only a single, serene being standing at the eye of the storm was a life changing experience. Of course, she never expected things to escalate so quickly.

Her mistress's empire stretched the entire eastern half of the Slaver's Bay, from Meereen to Yunkai to Astapor. If one stood atop one of the pyramid-shaped behemoths that were supposed to be trees, they could see a line of greenery run down the coast from one end to the other.

At first, in a time that seemed like a lifetime ago, Melisandre didn't expect things to change or change so quickly. While she had started off being enamored with the Green Lady to a point of fanaticism, Melisandre soon found herself disenchanted with the person behind the ideal. To the common people and often taught in the many schools that have grown, the Green Lady was the perfect ruler. She was supposed to know the answer to every question. She was supposed to be the all creative rule who is master of body and mind. She was even claimed, by some of the now-teeming numbers of fanatics, to be divinity given form.

In some respects, Melisandre thought that those ideas were not exactly too far off. But while their leader was an able fighter and more than skilled a mage than any in the known world, she was… lacking. She hated paperwork, which she paradoxically made to be the foundation of the administration of this empire. She hated bureaucracy even more, yet she made such a massive monster of a bureaucratic machine to rule and control every aspect of her citizens' lives… and left Melisandre in charge of more than half of that machine.

Melisandre clutched her head as she felt another headache coming on. This had been one of the reasons why she found herself no longer so blindly loving her Lady—her Lady was a sloth when she thought she could get away with it, without anyone noticing. It means that she was great with delegating jobs to people, but it was a horrible habit when, just out of the blue, she would try to get hands-on with many of the aspects she had left alone. Melisandre had an office now: it was at the center of the city she governed for her mistress. It was large, and the center of the administration… and there were enough piles of paperwork in her office alone to build a house luxurious enough for a king.

The Green Lady had spread her followers far and wide in this short time of prosperity. Melisandre had been moved to Astapor, where she took control of the city with at first with an army of walking trees her Lady called 'Treants', but soon held the city with an army of priestly pencil pushers.

The first projects to be completed were the roads, schools and manufactories. It was the manner of her lady to be hypocritical, to want an end to orderly civilization by making it even more orderly. After the second month of her rule, she had even published a 'set of standardized measurements', which she would kick people if they didn't use.

She literally walked up to them and kicked them in the shins until they used her measurements.

Then the roads were complete, and stout towers dotted them. "They are for messages. Just come up with some flags for that sort of thing until we get a Morse code thing going. I'll figure that out eventually," She had said. Melisandre's mind rushed then, but she realized pretty quickly the military implications of fast messaging across the empire.

The empire… that was another thing that baffled Melisandre.

One day some months after Meereen had been pacified and Yunkai stayed quiet, her Lady said to her, "Let's make an empire. It's like many kingdoms put together, with one head. That'll be me, alright? Hm… but I don't really want kings. So we'll have a federal empire."

"What will we name this new empire?" Melisandre had learned rapidly how to keep sarcasm out of her voice, but each new idea of the Lady's tested her patience ever more.

"Eden." Her Lady said after a moment of thought. "Yeah, that'll be great. Nothing could go wrong from that. Let's call it Eden."

And so it was, because more than three quarters of the citizens of her empire followed her with almost fanatical zeal. And why wouldn't they? The lower ranked members of the Order of Green Mages now operated the agriculture of the empire, which kept everyone, even those who did absolutely nothing, fed. Yet the Red Priests, who Melisandre could never identify as a part of her actual priestly order, would act in the roles of prefects and keep peace while keeping every citizen working.

Melisandre had a sneaking suspicion that she was, in fact, the only Red Priestess in all of Eden. All of the others seemed so… bland. Their faces were always blank and they never felt or burned with human passion. Of course, these fellow followers of R'hllor still invoked in His name and kept all the powers that this entailed. Something was off, but Melisandre was kept too busy with the matters of the State to truly investigate. There were certainly more important things to focus on.

By the end of the first year, Meereen's population levels had reached its previous mark. At least, that was what was speculated, as every of the city's houses were filled with families. A rough census came in a month afterwards that there were over a half million living in the city. Industry churned on and the city had grown into a monster of its own.

The Warlocks were pleased by all of this. The military, which they have had heavy influence on, had grown and also standardized. Pikes were made in pieces and each part able to replace another. Crossbows, which used to require master craftsmen months to make, were now being created in giant assembly lines. So few citizens worried about food, seeing as even the use of magic for farming and farm management had been similarly changed.

One time, while Melisandre was still acting as her Lady's assistant, the Green Lady jumped on a banana elemental and rode off without a word. Melisandre ran to keep up, though thankfully her Lady barely went to the outskirts of the city. There, she took over the management of one unit of the farms, where she started telling people what to do. It was all strange nonsense to Melisandre's ear, but no one questioned her Lady. No one really dared, because everyone had no idea what she was talking about.

"We'll plant some clovers then, and you can rotate some crops there. So stop planting the same thing all year 'round, and we'll see. Try different crops, because I don't really remember which other ones you're supposed to use. It might have been potatoes, or it could have been beats… Hm…" Her Lady rambled off.

And what could the farmhands do other than record her instructions and nod? Thankfully they had attended the necessary schooling to at least learn how to write.

A year later, Melisandre had heard that a manner of crop rotation had been adopted by all of the farms within the empire. More praises for her Lady's 'mastery of the mind', but Melisandre couldn't help but also wonder where this knowledge came from. It had to come from somewhere—this sort of knowledge was not magical and it would only be common sense that her Lady needed to be a farmer who experimented to know the slew of farming techniques that she taught. She certainly didn't receive this knowledge from R'hllor—her Lady never looked into a fire or performed any of the rituals… ever.

It confused Melisandre, and she resolved to keep a closer eye on these sorts of things. Yet she never asked or confronted the Lady about this. What was the point of that, if everyone's lives were better this way?

But her Lady never stopped this sort of action, where she just suddenly decides she was bored and needed to take the reins of some other organ of her empire. It continued in all sorts of fields, ranging from mixed unit tactics for the military, bee-keeping methods to make a liquor called mead, and even a sort of dance called 'Salsa'. There were times that Melisandre felt awfully tempted to confront her Lady; once she introduced a 'financial instrument' called 'securities', where she then went on to give legitimacy to the three largest merchant houses of Meereen by making them 'national banks'. After that the words and concepts just started spewing from her Lady's mouth like a river, 'derivatives', 'mortgage-backed securities', 'stock exchanges', and it went on and on.

The only thing Melisandre saw as a manner of bonus to all of these confounding mannerisms was that all of those would-be power-brokers in the city were equally confounded as she was by her Lady.

Undoubtedly, the events which unfolded in the second year showed that many of her Lady's intuitions were great in some way. As it happened in the previous year, the people were fed and happy. The Red Priests and Green Mages preached and people were free to believe what they liked. On a fundamental level of towns and villages scattered across the empire, people even elected their own governing bodies. The professional military force within Meereen numbered fifty thousand foot and five thousand horse. The Academy churned out Green Mages ranging from those who could only nurture crops to a few of those who could do all sorts of strange magic, such as animating plant-life to manipulating the tiny animals within human bodies.

But not everything was great, and Melisandre found that she had to endure her Lady ranting about her failures. Melisandre realized from the moment the concept was understood that it was paramount that none found out about this…

… Slumber parties.

Ugh.

Her lady would complain and complain, to the point of sounding like a five-year-old child deprived of sweets or a successful courtier. At first, she would start off mild, just wanting to braid Melisandre's hair or color her toe-nails with a strange, colored oil. But then she found her wine.

To this day, Melisandre still did not know how her Lady kept finding where Melisandre hid her alcohol.

"I mean, I knew that, like, a lotta people aren't in the city, but… so many are just going around doing farm things. It's like banks and economic recessions aren't even a thing!" Her Lady moaned.

Melisandre learned long ago when she needed to just smile and nod. This was one of those times.

"You know who just showed up the other day? That old Ghiscari bastard, what's-his-name. I don't even know if that guy considers himself a citizen, but he just complains my ear off for an hour about how I'm spending valuable merchant subsidizing money on the military and blah, blah, blah…"

Just like she was complaining Melisandre's ear off at that moment.

"I wanna conquer that place. Let's go raze Astapor."

"My Lady, you're drunk."

"I dun' care! I wanna!"

"You should lie down for a while."

"No! I wanna! I wanna, I wanna, I wanna! Lemme go, Melly!"

Then she cried herself to sleep.

It wasn't the first time Melisandre watched her Lady fall asleep while crying, but it was one of the more subdued times. Many other times, she would work herself to sleep, only to start crying about some nightmare about a 'Serra' and 'Monsters'. Melisandre never confronted her Lady about this either. It wasn't her place to do so.

But at the start of the second year, her Lady decided it was a good idea to conquer Astapor. Nothing could really stop her by that point, Melisandre realized. Meereen had grown to be almost a million in population, with Yunkai with half that number, though much less orderly. She didn't know where these numbers came from, but Melisandre wasn't stupid. There were only so many reasons, the chief of which was that the villages that lined the coast could no longer sell their produce at the price they desired, so those who saw loss migrated. Or perhaps the stories of Meereen being a paradise, a 'Garden of Eden', was what drew migrants in.

Melisandre scoffed. The myths that were told of Meereen grew each day, and Eden's neighbors liked her much less for it. No city in the Slaver's Bay liked a city ruled by a slave, and where all slaves were claimed to be 'free the moment they step within Eden'.

It was only the power of Meereen and Yunkai combined, and the threat of their other neighbors, that kept the other cities and petty kingdoms away.

But now her Lady carved a path of blood and leaves down the eastern side of the Slaver's Bay. Every village was subjugated without mercy, as it should be—and thankfully this kept the army, which consisted of mainly former-slaves, from acting out the cruder aspects of war. But they were also an army of fanatics; if their Green Lady told them not to rape and steal, they would take it like it was word from R'hllor.

Astapor held for less than a week. When first confronted by an army, it sent word out for help. Some came for fame, others for money. But Astapor felt safe, for a time.

Then their trees uprooted, their sea moved, and even their ships twisted to life, all without the Lady lifting a finger. The first students of her Academy were prematurely graduated for this conquest, and they proved their worth when their animated automatons of wood and earth subjugated the city, where the main gates themselves twisted apart to let pass the army. The nobles and rulers of Astapor bent knee, but Melisandre knew they were more than resentful.

She would have warned her Lady of this danger, but it wasn't necessary.

One look at the Plaza of Punishment at the inside of the main gates of Astapor was enough to sicken her Lady. That was the plaza where rebellious slaves were punished and executed after the most pain has been induced as possible.

Instead, her Lady left Melisandre with the army and the mages and threw her hands into the air. "Screw you all, I'm going home. Melly, you're in charge here."

And that was that, until today.

It has been nearly a year since Melisandre took hold of Astapor. An Imperial Highway runs the length of the coast now, from Astapor to Yunkai to Meereen. Beside it, an even wider set of rails were underway for an 'Imperial Railroad'. Melisandre had seemed the plans for the ambitious project, but it seemed something that was… distant and impossible. Being away from her Lady for a year had left her without the wonder she once had for all the creations her Lady spewed out. Now, all Melisandre was, was a jaded governor. A month after she took Astapor, a majority of the army returned to Meereen. Soon afterwards, she had less than fifty Green Mages, and less than five thousand food to keep this city of hundreds of thousands garrisoned.

She did the best she could. She consulted the fires for help and aide. She replaced many of those in power with those loyal to her Lady. She purged the other religions of the Old Ghis, of this cult of Harpies, out of the city. But she was just one woman after all.

And when Melisandre returned, she felt her heart plummet with sadness. Her Lady's court, which used to be so empty, was now filled with nearly one hundred courtiers. Melisandre could name a quarter of them in exclusion of the Warlock and another Red Priestess, who stood by her Lady's side. That Red Priestess looked awfully familiar, by the way she fingered her ruby choker…

Some of those Melisandre recognized in the court were lieutenants and generals within Eden's army. Others were the scions of merchant houses. A few were the remains of the old nobility, and they walked with an airs of smugness that only old nobility could have. The others… Melisandre had no idea.

Melisandre walked until she was at the foot of the Green Lady's throne and she knelt. "As you have called, I have come, my Lady. What is it that you ask of me?"

"Oh, don't be so stuffy, Melony!" Her Lady jumped out of the throne and picked Melisandre up by the shoulders with her supernatural strength. Melisandre felt like she was being handled like a pet animal, which was not far off, considering her feet were hanging inches off the ground.

"My Lady…"

"Here, have some wine. You ought to loosen up a little, let your hair down and…"

Melisandre pushed the cup away. "My Lady, what am I here for?" She asked with more force than she intended. The court around her silenced and stopped to a halt, as if no one had talked back before.

But her Lady laughed instead. "Ha! That's the Melony I wanted. Right, let's see… what do you want, Melony?"

"I want for you to stop calling me—"

"I just wanted to make this world a better place to live, you know?" Her Lady cut her off and sighed. She walked up and slung an arm around Melisandre's shoulder and snuggled in close as if that made her feel most content. A whisper rippled through the crowd of courtiers and Melisandre could almost hear them speak of how utterly scandalous this was. "I thought, I dunno, a year or two down the line, with Mana in my hands, things'll go the way I wanted. But here I am, mired in local politics, got a bunch of people who think they can tell me what to do, and I've barely changed anything."

Melisandre stared somberly at her Lady. She never knew how lonely it must have been for her to be here, ruling in Meereen alone. But as she raise a hand to caress the Green Lady's in her own, her leader turned and stomped back up to her throne.

"Right, right… Court is still in session. What's next, Mayor Cleon?" The Lady leaned back and massaged her forehead slowly with her eyes closed. She waved a hand, "Get on with it."

"Well," A muscular man walked forth, her dark skin and oiled arms making it apparent that he was a military man. There was a gruff, uneducated tone to his voice that made Melisandre frown. "My Lady, there is a Dothraki Horde on the horizon; the largest horde within an age. It is reported to be moving towards Meereen. It is more than triple our numbers, from what the refugees have been saying, and it is led by a scourge named Khal Drogo."

Her Lady nodded and took a sip of her drink. "Huh, the wine's tasting funny today. I thought it was just me, but it's really…" Then she spat out a glob of blood and wine. "Huh."

Melisandre moved close—the fires never warned her of this. The fires evaded her Lady, as if they never wanted her to be seen. But this… her heart drummed against her ears and drowned out the screams and cries of the court—

"No, no, it's okay, it's only a little poison," the Lady waved them off. When they didn't, she nodded to the Warlock, and suddenly there were twenty Warlocks prying the courtiers off of her. "Melony…"

"How can you be so calm?" Melisandre didn't know when she started crying, but she couldn't see very well through the tears.

"Oh… oh… come here. Hush, hush…" Her Lady patted her back gently. "This is the third time, actually, but the first time it's been public. My assassins are getting bolder, but that's why you're here, Mayor Cleon."

Melisandre's head spun around. The number of courtiers, it seemed to fit together now…

"What? I would never do such a thing!" The large man blustered, but he swung his arms about and pushed the Warlocks away. One was thrown off of his feet and into the walls with a dull thud.

"Well, that didn't stop you from selling crossbows, didn't it?" Her Lady muttered. She then spat another glob of blood out of her ruby red lips.

"B-But…"

"Oh, I know. You were careful. But that's the thing about double-entry accounting, see? Warlock, bring me the books." A thin stack of leaflets were delivered promptly. Melisandre could see a mess of numbers sprawled all over them. Her Lady continued to speak, "You sold them to traders, yes. But you knew these men. And they, in turn, _sold_ _Imperial armaments to Dothraki outriders_. Crossbows, given to horse archers who can barely shoot. Yes, I know. Oh yes, that's the thing about this system, isn't it? It keeps thieves from stealing, but at the same time, I can see what you are doing."

"B-B-But…"

"Funny. What was it that you said? A woman could never truly rule? You would give me legitimacy by marrying me? Tell me, what is the price one has to pay when one betrays their home?"

"H-How… T-This is no home of mine!" The man suddenly roars. He pulls knocks away another Warlock after swiping the Warlock's dagger. "Meereen was never my home, and Astapor would be better off without you or your red woman!"

"Oh dear. It seems like you are getting rowdy." Visible lines of green radiance shone from her fingertips, and the Lady thrust her arm forwards into Mayor Cleon's chest.

Her fist digs out of the man's back slowly, stretching flesh and cracking bone with painful awkwardness that causes most of those within the room to wince in sympathetic pain. The larger man stares down in horror as she pulls her hand back, and his heart is tugged out.

Then she squeezes.

"This is my empire. You have been in Yunkai or in Astapor, or whatever little town or hamlet or village that I've set up over the past year. Good for you. I don't care. I will not tolerate betrayal. I'm tired of your shit. I will not bog myself down in your petty conflicts anymore and you will not stand in the way of my goals." She paused and flicked her hands clean, leaving an arc of droplets on the sandy floor. "This is my house. This is my city. This… all that you see, is **mine**. I will share it with you, all of it, because it is mine. You want power? You can have power, you can have privilege, and everything in your heart's desire, because **it is mine** **to give**. **This is not your fiefdom!** This is my empire. I may listen to your advice, or I may not… but at the end of the day, my authority is absolute. Otherwise…" Her eyes flickered down to the pile of flesh that was once Mayor Cleon.

A soft wind could have knocked over half of those within the room then. But one by one, they genuflected and bowed their heads.

The Lady licked her fingers clean and smiled a sunny smile, as if she had not just killed a man. "Now then, let's get down to business and defeat these Dothraki, shall we?"


	10. Castel 1

Castel I

It seems like everyone is writing a memoir these days, what with the large influx of students into the new schools, so I might as well start writing one too. It seems like the profitable thing to do for most of my fellow professors, but I think this would be good reading material for my class in any case. Reading, it seems, is what's popular these days with the children, which only reminds me of how different my upbringing was in comparison.

My name is Castel Reyne, of House Reyne. But I wasn't always the person that I am today. Heck, I didn't even bear my own name until after I met the Lady Basilisk after the founding of the Academy.

Where do I begin?

I was born some fifteen years after my father left Westeros, for all those who asked me about the place, I knew nothing about it. It was some thirteen years or so before the Lady came, so I tell everyone I was born around 14 BE, but I don't really remember. As it so happened, I didn't even remember my own father very well. Father had escaped the purge of House Reyne to Lys, where he met mother. Father was already old and poor of health when I was born, and not two years afterwards, he died. I don't remember the day he died, only that I grew up without him there.

Mother was… well, Mother hid me well, even keeping my own name from me. But years from my youth, I late realized how much I had to thank her for, for keeping me alive. I didn't know or understand the concepts then, being the foolish child that I was. From Mother, I inherited silver hair and blue eyes, but I inherited my stockier form from the father whose name I cannot even remember. Such it was that when I was young, I would hate to look in glass or mirrors, because I might see my Mother's eyes looking back at me, judging me.

My youth was largely forgettable, like most children of the era. I rolled around in mud and roughhoused with my peers, vying for a spot on the top of the hill, but Mother moved closer and closer inland, looking for work.

I was not proud of what Mother did to feed us, though I have come to terms with the profession now. It is, as the Lady Basilisk says, a 'necessary evil of a bygone era'. But hate it nevertheless—the profession of 'escorting'.

As I had lived with Mother, I had soon desensitized myself to women and their wiles. I didn't trust them, not for year and years, after seeing how they were, after the veil has fallen. The Lady doesn't count though; I still don't believe her to be a real woman, no matter what the Skeptics argue. Someone like that can't be a simple woman, or a man for that matter. But I'm not here to discuss the speculations of the nature of the Lady. That's for your philosophy classes, which I hear doesn't offer good prospects for employment afterwards.

I was called 'Castel the Cast-Out'. It wasn't because of my heritage as a Westerosi, actually. I'd like to think I wasn't bullied because of my foreign looks either. It wasn't a very good nickname or very accurate. I often left the brothels, and my home. I didn't want to hear the sounds of my Mother… working. I don't think any child deserves that sort of thing.

But if you told the other kids that you were kicked out, the bigger ones won't pick on you as much, because they were the same. And the girls, who oft tried to be tough, would sympathize with you, even if they didn't show it when other kids were around. I think every kid just wanted to fit in, and I wasn't any different then.

This sort of cycle went on for a while. Mother and I would travel to a new city, and she would work. I would leave to scout around the city and make friends, join a gang of my peers. Sometimes I would steal things, but it wasn't anything big, just food or the like. It's so unimaginable now, with universal supply for food, but back then, many people starved to death. It's really hard to even think of such a thing happening now, at least in Essos and the Heartlands of Eden. But anyway, we would stay in a city for couple of months, until Mother wanted to move again. I didn't like to leave my friends, though at most we stayed in a town for a year I had found myself getting attached really easily.

I threw tantrums when I knew it was coming too. Oh, it wasn't easy to deal with me then. I threw things about, yelled, and even made Mother cry. I didn't understand why we had to move.

And this went on for about five years, until we arrived in Meereen. By then, I had traveled the southern coast of Essos, from Tyrosh to Lys to Volantis, and learned more than three languages, and belonged to more than five gangs. At the time, a new slave revolt had been just put down in Meereen, which Mother knew was a time of economic change, even if she didn't know the technical terms for such a thing. People lost slaves, which meant they needed to buy more, and when people spent more, that tended to carry over to other industries. I learned about this later, from the Lady herself.

Don't believe me? Well, I don't need to prove myself to you and I doubt you would get far in your magical studies if you're the kind who doesn't believe in things.

Well, I even went to the Arenas to watch the slave revolt leader fight a couple of times. I had to stand in the edge, at the very top and end, but it wasn't hard to see or hear her. I think more than I had fallen in love with her then. Most of my peers can quote her, line-by-line, from that time.

"Are you not entertained?"

"We who are about to die salute you!"

"Mercy? Mercy?! THIS! IS! MEEREEN!"

The Lady Green Eyed Basilisk always made sure you were entertained when you go to the Arena. It's a pity she banned it in that form afterwards, but at least she never killed the tradition completely. We still have Arena fights, but they aren't to the death anymore, even if everyone says her lines on the field now. It's just not the same anymore, and you kids who grew up after it happened just won't understand.

Back then, she never wielded any magic. We never knew that about her. It was an experience just to see her there, on the sands, making decorations and paintings with her opponents' blood. She had to fight all sorts of things, from lions to people, usually outnumbering her five to one or more. Sure, it's not a big deal now, but it was different then. I don't think the youths of today would ever understand how hard it was; she had no magic to heal herself, and she never once used her signature spells, like The Tarmogoyf or The Titanic Growth or the Mother of Hydras. I don't think she even could, back then, but it seems I'm in the minority on that subject in the academic society.

I remember her last fight. It was utterly brutal in a way that I hardly know how to put down on paper. But she was there one minute, and then she wasn't the next. The Good Masters of Meereen said it was because she was dead. But not long afterwards, it seemed like everyone knew she was sold… somewhere.

After that, I thought life would go back to normal. I would join a gang, make friends who would share a bond with me, and Mother would tell me we had to move.

But nothing seemed to turn out the way I thought it would.

First, Mother met That Man. I would not, even to this day, call him Father. He is no father of mine, and I don't see what Mother sees is so good about him. Sure, he kept both of us fed, and Mother no longer had to work… there. I still resented her for this. I know it was unjust of me, but I had little time to change my mind. Why? Because the Lady returned before I could! Time between her leaving and returning must have been years, but it seemed to go by very quickly, because almost nothing happened.

She returned in a storm, with an army at her back. I wasn't on the walls of Meereen when it happened, but I remember seeing a monster the size of a pyramid walking in front of the army, and just kicking aside Meereen's walls. Atop its head, through the tangle of moss and corpses and greenery, the Lady shouted commands to the city. I'd like to think my heart still beats faster when I remember those words. "Let no one be enslaved to another! Freedom is the right of all sentient beings!"

And I'd like to think that I laughed when one of the old nobles protested then, only to be stepped on by her monster, The Tarmogoyf. Well, actually, I pissed my pants. It was my only pair, back then, more the pity.

That was my introduction to magic.

Mother never told me about the rituals of Lys, saying they were for women and the like. I think that also fed my distrust for the opposite sex. Why did they get to do something I didn't get to do? I never understood that. You'll find that within the factions of the academic community, there is a 'Feminist Faction', which believes that magic should belong to women or women are better in the magical arts, depending on who you talk to. I think that's total bogus, but that's just me.

Anyway, that was 2 BE when this happened. That's right; Eden wasn't founded in a day, kids. It was a year before the Empire was declared, and even that was a declaration that trickled out slowly. It was so slow that the Imperial Calendar didn't start until the following year!

But what happens when three hundred thousand slaves are suddenly freed? Oh, riots happened, never doubt that! But it was never more than one thousand people, and almost always backed by one of the angry former-masters of the city. They wanted to keep the status quo, but everything changed. How can things stay the same, with only a different ruler, if the entire city shifted?

No one really wrote about this though. I don't even think the Lady did this on purpose. Meereen was a sprawling place with many tiny streets where even small push-carts cannot pass. It had many small, dark alleys that allowed gangs of children and teens to thrive. Well, all of that changed—you only see those kinds of gangs in plays these days. What happened?

The Lady happened.

First, it was the trees within the city. They were small, usually fig trees or something equally tame. But then they grew, and they didn't stop growing. Where a tree's trunk was only the thickness of a child's arm, some grew that even the stems of their leaves were that size. Roots and tendrils grew and shifted the earth itself, collapsing walls and reshaping the streets. There were no small alleys after that; even the buildings, from small, wooden hovels to moderate, stone houses like mine, to even the great manors were moved about by roots too large to be real. Those two hundred some trees are called the World Trees of Meereen, I think, but at the time, there were no names for them other than 'acts of a god'.

So my house was moved from a ghetto, to a street. Then the street was named 'North Leaf Street', and my house was assigned a number. We didn't really know why then that the Lady did this, it made no sense. Why bother number the houses? Some were numbered even though they were just a small shack barely large enough for a single man to lie down!

But it wasn't a bad thing, not completely. The trees bore fruits large enough to crush houses. New jobs were made overnight. No one was a 'fruit butcher' before, but now we needed fig cutting, apple cutting, and all sorts of cutting. The fruits would always grow and fall from the same spots on the tree branches, always fall on the same parts of the standing pyramids, and always roll to the same places. Of course, sometimes they rolled off course… why, there was one time when a peach rolled over my backyard. It was five stories tall, and some boy from the gang named James decided to take up residence within. I hear that he started a short fad of living within the fruits, but back then, we needed food more than anything, so he was soon homeless.

Thankfully, no giant worms lived inside those fruits. The skins were too thick, but it's not hard to see orange and apple skins being used for building material. After being properly treated, they were as good as wood, which was already a commodity. Many a person made a job from building houses, and the homes near any of the large pyramids were worth more than a normal, honest person could make in ten years.

So where did that leave me? At the time, I was a part of the gang called 'The Jets'. To be honest, half of the kids didn't even know what a jet was (it's a sort of shiny, black stone, which incidentally was because the previous leader of the gang had a similar skin color). It was a small gang, which ruled only the first half of North Leaf Street, from the Third Street to the Eleventh Street. Well, I was a sort of outcast, so I had to take what I could, and even then, I was the only one in the gang with pale, white skin.

We didn't do anything bad. Why does everyone think gangs were bad? There were no schools then, so it was either help your parents in their jobs or lounge around. But no one wants to be called a sloth, not after the Lady made a proclamation about it. She had said about how it was everyone's responsibility to each other, or something to that effect. Whatever the exact words were is lost to me, but I remember everyone looked at each other suspiciously, because whoever was lazy was stealing from everyone else. Anyway, we helped around the street, keeping it clean and neat, because there was a prize out for the person in charge of the cleanest street to be the 'Royal Sanitation Manager'. That role was later divvied up a year later, between 'Imperial Pipe Inspection', 'Imperial Public Sanitation Management', 'Imperial Soap Works', and 'Imperial Medicines Ministry'. Even at the time, it was a prestigious role, even when none of the kids knew what it meant.

Of course, being small as we were, we didn't even make it to the top five spots. Of those five areas, three were located next to the local wells, which had flooded with fresh, underground water being pumped up by root elementals. The two others were former districts of the wealthy, which wasn't fair at all! They started cleaner and without dung on the roads.

Well, after the role got divvied up, it was sort of fair, since every area had a bit of power, but no one really stepped on anyone else's toes, except for Imperial Public Sanitation bastards. Those jerks will fine you for even spitting in public roads. I don't think anyone likes a busybody like that.

I was both happier and angrier that year. I was happier because I was well-fed. I could each any sweet fruit I wanted, to a point where my belly poked out like a watermelon. Oh, the watermelons… they were the size of pyramids. It took the whole city a week to finish one! I never had tasted some of the stuff before then. I cried the first time I tasted that sweet, watery bite.

I'm not ashamed of crying about it, but I guess you won't understand what it was like then, to starve or to live day by day, not knowing when or if food will ever come. Or maybe you do, then I'd offer to buy you a pint if I ever meet you.

But I don't really remember anything else that happened during that time, not really. There was one evening though, when something walked out of the Lady's Pyramid. It was a colossus dressed in the skin, with stars and infinite depth in itself. Barely anyone remembers it anymore, but soon afterwards, the Green Temples started sprouting up. Red Priests preached within them, but instead of teaching about R'hllor, they were teaching about a new Goddess called Lilith. She sounded alright to most of us, a sort of god who let people live how they wanted, as long as they hurt nobody else doing what they liked. But at that time, everyone was a fanatic. It was hard not to be, since it was the unofficial official religion of Meereen. No one had any other explanation for the giant trees and fruits in the city, and did you really want to believe that they came about from the blood and life sacrifice of the former masters of the city? That would make many people, even former slaves, lose their appetites. I knew I didn't eat anything the day someone said that to me. The tomatoes were awfully red…

Well, time passed quickly, until Mother came up to me one day with a demand. It was the first she had for me, since forever, outside of telling me when to leave. I had half started to throw a tantrum just because I expected us to be leaving Meereen.

"Castel, you must go to the Lady's school," Mother had said.

"Why? I already know numbers and I can write just fine." I have disliked laziness, but I didn't see a point in doing more work than necessary at that point. I sort of just hated everything in life back then.

"The Lady is looking for those with potential for magic."

"So? You never taught me anything." I had said those words with more venom than I intended. I still remember the hurt in Mother's eyes, but at the time, I didn't care.

"You know I can't…"

"You never told me why!" I took one of the bowls in the house. It was filled with a cutting of fresh grapes. They smelled absolutely delightful and so sweet too. Then I threw it on the ground. "You don't understand me at all!"

Mother looked away from me. I remember wonder why she wouldn't meet my eye. I thought to myself, that perhaps that was a sign of guilt. It disgusted me then, and filled me with irrational venom towards Mother. "Please, Castel. Do attend. I'm… I'm sorry Castel, please…"

But I would have none of that. I stomped out of the house.

I could hold a tempter and a grudge back then. It was something that developed, really. If you couldn't get mad, then the others in the gang would think you're weak or soft. I couldn't have that.

Yet the very next day, I found myself standing at the foot of the Pyramid, in line to be tested for my potential.

A Red Priestess would take my hand in one hand and my forehead in the other. Then she would channel something, which I learned to be Mana, much, much later. It was like the warmth of holding your hand over a fire, but being conscious of it and being able to move it like a living thing within your body. It was marvelous, especially when it kept moving, and I hadn't realized she had already let go of me.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the Red Priestess. But I was standing at her height, and I felt invincible.

She smiled at me, and told me those words I still remember to this day. "You have potential. Don't squander it, child."

Potential. Everyone had potential, but almost everyone never take the steps to hone their potential. I attended the Academy because I wanted to be better, to be different. I hated Mother, I hated Father, I hated everything. Was I right? Looking back now, I don't think I was. But no one can convince a teenager of their follies other than experience itself.

I walked through those tall, oaken doors of the Academy knowing I wanted power. Magic was power, the most powerful power there was, from what the Lady displayed.

They were imposing doors. Each was two stories tall, and decorated with huge, ten-meter tall carvings of demons on each side. I was convinced that if the Lady willed it, they would leap out of the wood and attack any child who escaped the Academy. That idea never left me to this day. I still tell it to my students, but I don't think they believe me.

Oh well…

There was another kid who got into the Academy from my street. She wasn't a Jet, of course, but I remember her. She was the banana-bread maker's daughter, with a cute dimple on her left cheek. I think her name was Nerys.

For some reason, she avoided me. Maybe it was because I was in a gang.

I didn't care too much, because I wasn't that interested in girls at the time. Oh, how wrong I would be. I enjoyed a short time at the Academy nothing thinking about girls. Well, I didn't really think about anything, really. I just worked. I learned and learn. Green Magic wasn't hard to learn, compared to all the other things that the Lady taught. It was certainly easier than learning about economics and science.

We started small, learning how to draw Green Mana from Meereen. Then we made crude, wooden imitations of the Lady's artifacts. She had us making strange candle-holders that somehow strengthened our grasp on the land. With a Candelabra in hand, we could do things close to even the level of the Lady. At least, that was what we thought.

We learned, learned, and learned. The Lady would lecture at unexpected turns, showing up always unannounced. She taught things we didn't know before. None of us could even understand the concept of bacteria until she just sighed and slapped her forehead, before mumbling out an 'Okay, it's just tiny animals in your body'. Looking back, it was pretty humiliating how dumb we must seem now. Microbiology is a field of its own today and there are even those few Green Mages who specialize in its use.

Still, the facilities were better than anything I was used to. I had my own desk in class, and only shared the Red Priestess teacher with nineteen others. We were given uniforms to wear of a sort of bleached linen with short, triangle collars. At first, I thought we all looked like fools. It was stupid to wear something so white and clean, it's just going to get dirty again in a day! But then we were made to do our own laundry—and if we didn't clean well enough, we'd have to do it again! Each class was responsible for the laundry of the entire Academy a month, assigned in order. This made it so that the pressure of keeping clothes clean rather heavy, especially since the Lady Basilisk would show up at random intervals!

She'd take one look at a student with dirty clothes, scoff, and not offer them another glance. It was simple, but humiliating. No one wanted that, and I often caught classes that weren't on laundry duty doing clothes washing anyway.

The sleeping quarters were nice too. I didn't have to share a room with Mother anymore and got my own bed. It was supposed to only be simple and small, but it felt immeasurably larger to me, without anyone to share it with. Nights would have been colder then, and I think they were, if not for the floors and roofs heating themselves. It's a trick of Green Mana channeling from the ground through the wood, for anyone wondering. We figured it out some months later, after hundreds of hours of experimentation.

We studied everyday in the great halls that the Lady constructed, but we did many other things too. We experimented with the sciences, to understand the nature of the world and record it all. We burned so many different materials, froze them, mixed them, and all sorts of things to figure out what composition did what, and in which ratios. Every morning and every evening, we marched and drilled with pike weapons and shields, even though half of us never planned to become a soldier. And every meal, we had to listen to more lectures on strange, foreign things called 'morals'. It was a queer time to be in the Academy, but I hear the curriculum only grew after I left.

At that time, my fears weren't being kicked out of the Academy. To be honest, even though I wanted so much, I didn't care much for the whole system. It wasn't bad, but, well… I didn't fear Mother's disappointment (though it was more because I tried to never think about her) or even the Lady. No, what I feared was I was forgetting my friends.

See, it was around that time that I realized that memories could be forgotten. It was to this horrifying realizing that I woke one morning, but I couldn't name the members of the first gang I joined. Then I spent that day trying to remember the names of my friends.

Their faces seemed to mix and merge in my mind. How many friends did I have? Fifty? Forty? How many gangs have I been in? Six? Seven? Four? I pulled at my hair and even stubbed my toe kicking the foot of my bed in my frustration. But all that didn't do me any good.

Did I even remember how to make friends? The thought that frightened me most was not that I couldn't make any new friends though, but it was close. Would I be alone, if I didn't remember them?

I still didn't care much for girls then, but then I thought of the bread baker's daughter. She was the only one I knew, why wasn't I friends with her? Everyone else grouped up by their home streets or cities. But the thing about Nerys is that she was… different. She never talked, and she was small too, inheriting the strangest mixture of traits from her parents. She had the dark, curled hair of the Meereeness, but her skin was pale like mine or of Lys. It was a bad mixture, in addition to her apparent silence. Of course, that didn't stop her from getting into the school, and no one dared stop her after the Lady issued a proclamation of 'equal education for all, tolerance for everyone' of some sort. It wasn't very well worded, but most of us understood the spirit of her words anyway.

I found her that day, in some corner of one of the school rooftops, which no one ventured to. She was cornered by a gaggle of our peers, both male and female. They didn't seem very friendly. "Why don't you go home, mutie?"

"Yeah, mutie!"

"Hey, why don't you leave her alone!" That was me. I was an idiot, who thought he could fight off five kids at the same time. Well, I think that was when I realized I didn't like the Lady Basilisk very much either—she made this look easy.

Long story short, not five minute later, I found myself curled up in a ball, being poked and kicked by my peers. It didn't hurt me very much, not since we all learned how to toughen ourselves with the little tidbits of Green Mana at our disposal, but I don't think my pride recovered in a long time.

I got up eventually, and realized that I had missed the day's class. Tardiness was punished harshly, and I didn't look forward to all the laps I had to run because of this. Well, Nerys was alright, though. But being me, I didn't know any better. "Hey, are you okay?"

She nodded a sad nod.

"Why didn't you tell anyone they were bullying you?" I frowned. It seemed like the common sense thing to do.

She tilted her head at me, as if I were trying to tell a poorly tasted joke. Then she pointed at her throat and opened her mouth. No sound came out.

"Oh."

She smiled at me again, still so sadly. Then she handed me one of those swirled, caramelized sweets that the Lady invented in her spare time. It was one of the cheapest ones, which every child had access to—just one a week. It was a swirly colored lollipop, I believe. I don't think any sweet tasted so good as that one, but that's just my opinion. They don't even make those anymore, since the Lady doesn't have a hand in them anymore and the people in charge started using substitute sugar for some odd reason.

I took it and we walked off into the lecture halls, ready to take our tardiness punishment. No one liked a tattletale, after all. I wasn't going to snitch, even if I was beat up. I guess that was something that was beaten into me from my gang days.

But that event wasn't when I started to be truly serious about my studies. No one believes me, not even my later friends. They all say Nerys changed me, or 'it took a woman's touch'. Well, it did, but it certainly wasn't my friend Nerys. One of those nights, the Lady herself visit me in my room.

Oh come on, I can see you rolling your eyes. Don't believe me? Fine, it's not like I want to tell that story anyway. Suffice to say, it happened and I became more motivated. I realized I needed to be.

Then, barely a year later, we were off to war. But at least I had a friend now. It's strange, one day I just pick a random person and decide I wanted to do things with her. But why not?

In that year, Meereen changed drastically. And underground level had been dug out and built with the help of apprentice Green Mages (my year and the year below mine both worked on it in tandem). We raised the first pyramid-tree too, which looks like a green mountain from a distance. It was a project that the entire Academy worked on—so if anyone wants to thank someone for the Pyramid Trees which power almost all the Mana using utilities that are available, it was the classes of that year they should thank. I think we all put a piece of our souls into the first one. It still stands at the center of Yunkai.

The Lady Basilisk's name had just become 'The Lady' in colloquial language by then, as basilisks were still dangerous, wingless dragons and we liked the Lady like a mother-figure, sort of. It was better to think of your ruler as someone nice than… well, a dangerous, poisonous lizard.

It seemed like the Lady loved plants, but she killed them in droves to make paper. Why? Everything in the Empire required paperwork.

Do you want to own a house? Do your housing paperwork?

What do you do when you need to pay your taxes? Paperwork!

Do you want to get married? Fill in the marriage and co-habilitation forms.

Are you expecting to have a child? You better have those forms filled in or else you won't be able to get more food for your kids!

Say you want to apply for a new job, even one that paid you under the table, guess what? You better fill in the paperwork or else the treant police will pick you up and put you into a labor camp. Enjoy your new job digging out a quarry!

No one really understood what was happening, because in the first few months, barely anyone could read. But then schooling for basic literacy became required, and the Lady had city criers run from corner to corner distributing news. Soon, it was by pamphlet instead, though some enterprising fellows learned how to sell their pamphlets better by printing local gossip on the back and advertising with more criers. But with all the laws written down to a point where judges were almost all obsolete, an entire constitution binding everyone _including the Lady herself_, it was writing on the wall what was happening, really.

So everyone spent time in schools, be they five years old or fifty years old. Afterwards, new teachers came in and taught, while some began teaching numbers and other things, like accounting and the like. For that whole year, I think the Lady spent almost all of her time making sure the schools worked and taught almost anything someone could imagine.

Well, with our food problems out of the way and even farms running (I still don't know when or who had the time for that!), a majority of us had so much time left to pursue more intellectual needs.

But that year passed quickly, and we marched off to war on Astapor.

I was in Nerys' division, though it was because the divisions were formed from our classes. She was our captain, even though she couldn't speak. As it turned out, she was the most powerful Green Mage in our class, which put her in the top ten of all Green Mages. Instead of speaking to us, she would send a wave of Green Mana. Different tones and variations mean different things.

We didn't really even need a captain, with the Lady taking control of everyone. I didn't really like the feeling, because it felt like I was drowning. The Lady's power is… well, it's too much, for most of us. It was like looking into a sun when you are holding only a dying candle. It was awe-inspiring, but it was around then that I decided that the Lady couldn't possibly be a normal human like us. She was just too powerful!

Well, the other part of Nerys becoming captain was actually a good thing: it was recognition of her power. No one dared bully her anymore, and everyone wanted to be her friend.

It's strange how people change their minds so quickly, but I wasn't one to talk. I was starting to think about home around then.

So after the rather anticlimactic battle (in which the Lady simply pumped us so full of Green Mana, even dead wood within Astapor came to life), I returned home.

"Mother?"

"C-Castel… you didn't say you were returning home."

"I didn't."

"Oh. Uh. Um, come in!"

"Who… who is that?"

"This?" She bounced him on her lap. "This is your new little brother, Duncan."

Just when I thought I wanted to reconcile with Mother, this happens. "Is he… That Man's son?"

"He is my son, Castel." There was harshness in her voice that Mother had never used on me before. "He is my son… whether you like it or not. Are you coming in?"

"I… I don't think I should."

"But you've graduated already, haven't you? Where are you staying?"

"Only prematurely. The Lady said we could return to study more subjects other than magic's application to war if we wanted." I paused and added more softly. "I'm staying with Nerys for now."

"Oh! The baker's daughter! Oh my!"

"I-It's not like that! Mother!"

"I don't know what you mean, dear Castel. Do stay for dinner, please. I missed you." I was tempted to agree, but then Mother kept talking. "And your Father, he too—"

"That man isn't my father!"

"He is!"

"You can't make me accept him, Mother! You don't, my Father was not some—"

"You don't even remember your father, Castel!"

I spun on my feet and ran off then. I ignored her cries for me to come back, her cries of apologies. In truth, I wanted to be the one to apologize. I didn't know why I was so stubborn. But something the Lady taught about tolerance always stayed with me. Maybe I was wrong about her intended lesson, but I believed in the Reyne blood in my veins. That was my belief.

I wanted to reconcile with Mother. Really, I do. But I cannot and will not accept that man as my father. There is only one man who is my father. And that's all I will say about that, not even the Lady can convince me otherwise.

But after that, I didn't want to stay in Meereen anymore. And that was the second time the Lady approached me.

"Castel, you are a Green Mage now. With your Candelabra, you can make yourself the size of giant and call for trees to uproot themselves. You've proven yourself in the short campaign. What will you do now?"

"I…" I stared down at my hands. Did I really push Mother away so easily? "I don't know. Everything is too confusing. I don't know what to do…"

"Ah, I understand." Her green eyes shone like twin stars. Somehow, I had a feeling she really did understand, inhuman as she was.

"I just want to get as far away as possible."

"Hm…" She strode about for a moment. "What do you think about… becoming someone you are not?"

"I… to be honest, that would be great."

"Good, good." She bridged her fingers together in a strange gesture that I couldn't really understand. It was no hand sign I've seen before. Back and forth, back and forth, cascading. "I have need of an agent in Volantis. You will pose as a merchant and create a network there. Spread your roots so that you may weather any foe."

"A mission, my Lady?"

"Think of it as… an adventure, Castel Reyne."


	11. Castel 2

Castel II

I was going to the stall in the market that our Lady had told me to go to. It was a time before clandestine operations were formalized and organized, and many times rumors told by traveling merchants were how nobility got their information. At the time, I didn't understand this and thought it silly. Why not be proud of being a citizen of the Empire and ask for knowledge directly? But I was young then, and I knew little.

I had arrived at the market, which had been largely renovated since three years ago. The slave market had become a 'bar street', where a majority of the emerging "middle-class workers" lounged after work. People had money to buy what they wanted! Beer was the local favorite, but the Lady gave us mead and whiskey. It was nice to change tasted every now and then. What a time to be alive! Personally, I liked whiskey cocktail from the 'Purple Leaf' lounge, which is nicely shaken and not stirred. Well, the rest of the market had changed greatly too. Food was fresher, or fresh at all. Most of us never tasted fresh food before, but with new roads and so many farms, it was affordable to buy fresh.

The identity I was going to take on was that of a young merchant. The Lady had written down the basic idea of the person, before ending the note with 'burn after reading'. It was a nice touch, I realized, since only the best Green Mages could restore burnt paper. It is a class assignment to form paper, and an advanced course work to piece together shredded paper, but burned? I couldn't do that unless I wanted to knock myself out, and even then I couldn't guarantee the quality of the restored words on the paper.

The stall was hidden behind a row of street vendors, and in an alley behind several new buildings that were selling instruments and tools for construction. It was very out of the way, though the shadowy nature of the alley meant that it would be a good place to idle. Even with so many trees in and around the city, Meereen was still a desert city. But once I turned the corner, I saw a small row of more vendors. There were few people here—a barber shop there and a wood cutter here was about everyone in the alley. Then there was here.

"Nerys? What are you doing here?"

She looked up at me with a look that told me I was being too straight-laced or proper. Or maybe she was telling me I was being stupid—it was hard to understand her when she didn't speak. I mean, pulse her Mana, because we all know she can't speak. I had grown since our campaign south. We were equals in height when we were in school, but I was now a head taller than her. It strange, but I couldn't bring myself to stare into her eyes, but I could stare at pretty much every other part of her.

After an awkward moment, Nerys rolled her eyes and dropped a couple of beads on the counter of her stall. They were tiny, green beans of sorts, and they twitched until they formed words. 'I'm your handler.'

"What the hell is a handler?"

'I watch you and report directly to the Lady. She chose me to be one of her Hands in delicate matters.' Nerys tossed her hair back imperiously, her eyes watching me for a reaction. It was a sort of game we played, and I thought it about right seeing as we were good friends. The beads rolled around chaotically for a moment before forming cruder words that were a tad harder to read. 'Seriously. Someone like you needs someone to watch his back.'

"Oh, like you're one to talk. Remember when you tried to enlarge the banana we had to animate by—"

She slapped my face with a banana. 'You're incorrigible.'

"Ah, you know it."

'Repeat to me your cover.'

I cleared my throat and very slowly rolled my tongue slightly to add a Lys native's accent. "Hullo, I am Crastor the trader. I was born in Volantis some years ago, but my caravan was attacked by Dothraki raiders. It has been a long time since I have set foot in my home. I've been all over Essos, but I love Volantis best."

'Passable.'

"Hey!"

She rolled her eyes again. 'Your immediate assignment is to settle in Volantis. Make at least two other merchant contacts within the city and begin influencing trade so that there will be surplus of Volantis coin in Meereen."

"Oh, I think I see what's going on here."

One of her rather fine eyebrows rose mockingly.

"I mean, it's pretty simple what the Lady wants, after her economics classes." I wagered a guess. "She wants to replace the other coins, so that only the Imperial coin is accepted."

'Every so often, you surprise me. It seems like you're smarter than the average buffoon after all.'

"Of course… wait, what? Never mind. Is that all?"

'Secondary goal: look for two small towns along upstream from Volantis that have potential to expand to create a new trade route to Pentos. You will be supported by the Empire in taking control of trade. Once a land route is reestablished, you will be notified to support agents who will be operating via sea routes.'

"That sounds about right. I guess we're really going to hit Westeros at some point."

'Eventually.'

"So what are my supplies?"

'You will be provided with one cart of any supplies you need for the initial endeavor. In addition, a gift from me.'

Then the horse beside her stall, which I never noticed until that point, reared up and pounced upon me. After a moment of tumbling, I found myself with a horse on my lap, with my ass on the ground. "What… is this an elemental?"

'An advanced treant animation. I will teach you the spell, on the way to Volantis.'

"Oh, that'll be fun… wait a minute, 'on the way'? You're coming with me?" The look she shot me was reminiscent of the first look she gave me. "You're coming with me. Er. Great! You're coming with me! What's your cover? My sister? You can't be my mother or daughter, you're… not the right age."

'No, I'm your wife for this… adventure.'

At that point, I fainted. It was probably because the wooden horse on my lap was cutting off circulation or something. Really. Why doesn't anyone believe me?


	12. Green 6

Green 6

"Melisandre, be a dear and come here, would you?"

My little Red Priestess stared at me queerly, as if wondering if I had been replaced by a pot person.

Oops. I usually was a lot less formal addressing her, but this was only of those times that pushed my moral boundaries a bit so I might have fallen back on old habits. I cleared my throat and tried again, "I just want to try a spell, Melony."

There. She still looked as if I was rotting garbage that was on fire, but at least she wasn't wondering if I was myself anymore. "Alright. What is this spell?"

"Well, I sort of realized I couldn't be everywhere at once," I started to say.

"That is why you delegate your work. To me. In fact, I believe a vast majority of your paperwork is currently sitting on my desk! Is this why you called me back from Astapor—?" Where was that cute, little girl who was shy about things? My, they grow up to quickly…

"Semantics, Melly! Semantics. Don't worry about that. I mean the real nitty, gritty stuff, like combing through the paperwork to see which household hasn't paid their taxes or which factions are currently trying to rebel and kill me, that sort of thing." I realized taxing each person was a stupid thing to do. It didn't make sense, and many people were still migrant workers. I mean, I used to think that if an industry becomes obsolete, people should just go learn a new profession, right? That looks pretty on paper and refutes all those silly complaints about people losing jobs and what not by saying they are lazy. But in reality, it didn't go that way. People need time, months and sometimes even years, to learn a new profession. Even if they did, it took them time to adjust, because each change drastically warped their lifestyles each time. And each time a new innovation was out that changed a line of work, or even removed it from necessity altogether, unemployment rose. Unemployment rising causes the citizens to become unhappy, even if they are still fed and watered. Idle hands, it seemed, led to idle mouths that started to talk about ideas I didn't like, or idle bodies that formed a sort of gathering that I didn't want to endorse. Well, there was no point in taxing everyone—that was too hard to keep track of anyway, but I could tax households that have homes and are able to do so.

"You did form your Hands. I'm surprised not more people talk of them, but almost all within the upper echelons of the Empire do know about them," She muttered, but nevertheless came over for my experiment. "You ought to be more subtle about that sort of thing, my Lady."

I waved the concern off. "Nonsense, they're supposed to know I have people watching them. It keeps them… tamed. Anyway, most of them just know my Hands by rumors anyway. It's no big deal."

"No big deal, she says," Melisandre rolled her eyes. "Do you know how many come to my office to complain about that sort of thing? Some of them even have an argument beyond blustering in and acting like they owned the place."

I shrugged. "It's almost as if we don't care."

"You don't."

"Point. Anyway, the thing is, I can't really have people watching people watching people. That sort of checks and balances work, to a point." I muttered more to myself than to Melisandre, but I'd like to think that she's gotten better at understanding my mutterings these days. "So I want to have a way of watching my agents. They _are_ called Hands for a reason—I did borrow the idea from a fellow Empire ruler after all."

"Oh? And this spell will help you fix this problem?"  
"Yes. I haven't gotten a good name for it yet, and I'm not really good with the Black Mana needed for this." Then I muttered incoherently, "The Warlocks sort of start dying whenever I use them. It's a good thing I made so many."

"Wha… what was that about the Warlocks?"

"Oh, nothing!"

"… Right." She was staring at me funny again. "And why me? Why not one of your Hands?"

"They are all on missions right now, but I've got their mark. That's the tough part that I had to… use… some of my Warlocks for. Well, you can't make an omelet without breaking a few heads." I smiled and placed my hands on her shoulders. "Just relax. I've got the theory down."

"Wait, what? You've never tried—"

"I didn't name it yet, but some people call it **Assuming Direct Control**." The following sensation was something entirely too trippy for me to describe in simple words. It wasn't like summons, which are an extension of my will. It wasn't like the created elementals, which have little mind—or ego—of their own other than the programmed thoughts I placed in them for their designed purposes. It was like having a new limb, but not having the soul fit into it correctly. I could see from her eyes and taste all of her senses as if it were me, but _it wasn't me_. I could feel Melisandre's thoughts, if I spoke to her, she thought back to me. It was a means for me to talk to my agents, no matter where they were or what condition they were in. I took that as an initial success.

Then I released Melisandre, who promptly fell into my waiting arms.

"Oof! Okay, okay. They'll get used to it." I patted her back slowly. "How do you feel?"

She had a couple of tears in her eyes, "Like… I felt like I was watching my body do things, but I couldn't do anything about it. I wasn't in control. How…?"

"Oh, is it…" I bit my lips. It was just mainly something for function, I hadn't known about how it might feel to her. Yeah, I didn't want to cross into the lines of something I didn't want to become. There were morals that were already being pushed here, I didn't want to hurt my friend. "I'll try to change it, I don't know…"  
She grabbed me by my arms and stared directly at me with an intensity that made me shiver. "No! No, no, no. Don't… it's, my Lady, it's just too overwhelming. While you… become one with me, I could feel all of those others, their thoughts…"

"Oh, you could feel the other Hands?" I blinked. That was interesting. Well, Green Mana usually led to some form of hiveminded, socialist-friendly form of being, but that was entirely unintended. I frowned. That was a lot of work. "I gotta fix that too then, huh…"

Melisandre stopped and actually shook me. My head rattled and she closed her eyes, squeezing away stray tears. Then her burning gaze returned with redoubled heat. "No! Don't… don't you see? It… my… you… I was a part of something greater."

"You still are?" I tried to back away, but her grip was really strong for a cute girl.

"Not like this, not like this. I… I could feel the others. I could feel you…" Then she stopped and stared at me in horrified awe. Her lips shook and she took a step back, as if she had reverted to the mindset she had when I first met her. Then one knee fell to the floor and she grasped my ankles.

"Hey… Hey, Melly. Hey!" I pulled her back up. "What's the matter with you? Get up!"

"I-I…"

"Look, if you aren't going to get up, I'm gonna leave!"

"But… to stare at you was to feel like a moth beside a bonfire. How can you _be?_" She gaped.

I sat her own. It must have been some kind of weird Mana overload. I had to have used too much, or did my calculations wrong, or something. "Look, you're just… I never told you I was completely human, did I?"

"_What are you?_" She whispered. Tears continued to stream out of her eyes, but I don't think she was even seeing me with her eyes anymore. She just sat, gripping my wrists with a vice-like hold that felt like she would die if she let go. Then she asked again, harsher, quicker, "_What are you?_"  
"I think I did tell you before. There are some questions you shouldn't ask, because you wouldn't want to know the answers that they hold. But tell me, what do you think I am, Melisandre?"  
She sniffled and wiped her face against her sleeve. "When I first met you, I thought you a goddess, or the champion of a god of magic. But that couldn't be it. I saw you create… her. They chant her name in the city now, as if she was always what they believe in. And yet, you are flesh, you are bone. You have fire in you. I… I don't know." She clutched her head and cried. "I don't know. What are you? What did I see?"

"I don't… Hm… I think you might have glimpsed at my soul. I'm using my soul as a network for all of my Hands. Mine, I can keep growing, 'cuz I'm… well, I'm _long lived_, let's say." I shrugged. At least she wasn't whimpering anymore.

"Can… can you do that again?"

"What? Why? It left you this sobbing mess!"

"Please!" There was a tone of urgency, of need. Her voice was strange, as was her expression. However I read her, she seemed like a strange mixture between a crying addict who craves her substance and a person who missed her dearly beloved family-spouse-siblings-friends too long. It hurt just to hear her say that word, in this manner.

When did my eyes get wet? I shouldn't let her affect me. "Look, if you really want to, I'll teach you how to… join it again. It's not really hard, since I already gave you access, but it's just a psychic network. It's made from Green Mana, so it's a wild, untamed immaterial plane shaped by ambient thought."

"I don't know what you said, but do it!"

"We need to make sure you don't get lost in it. Right now, I only have fifty one, including you, 'logged into' it. But it's already a mess. Anyway, how do you feel when you are a part of it? Why do you want it so badly?"

"You're… so you. My Lady, it is the sense of understanding, when with so many others. To completely comprehend others and to feel their being beside you. I knew how far they were. Like your little project, Nerys, she was already on her way to Volantis, but she couldn't stop thinking about her friend. But it's more than that, I think… I think they could feel it too, from the other end."

I scratched my head. Huh. "Well, I don't want to have to do this fifty-one times. That'll be such a choir. Let's wait until everyone's asleep before I get on with that sort of thing. It'll be easier to get everyone to focus if I didn't interrupt them in whatever they're doing. Well, at least I know that works. Hm." I nodded. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Let's see, the army garrison has been ready for a few days, but now that the Dothraki are close enough, I think I want to try… what's that other thing?"

"What other thing?" Melisandre sniffled. She still wasn't over it, but I could see that she was trying to control herself.

"Erm, that thing where I don't go and destroy everything and stomp them into a bloody mess in a ditch somewhere? The one where we go and talk to them? It's on the tip of my tongue, but I haven't said that word in so long, I've forgotten what it was…" I grumbled.

"Diplomacy?"

"Yes! That's it!" I cheered. "Get the horses, we're going to diplomacy the shit out of those Dothraki bastards!"


	13. Green 7

Green 7

The wind wiped my hair around as I climbed the walls. Meereen's once brick walls have much eroded away, giving them an outer consistency similar to the outside layer of bricks on the Great Pyramids of Giza. Sections of the wall had been destroyed by my invasion force years ago, but most of it was worn away later by the same plants that grew over them. What replaced these poor barriers were layers of earth, dragged up from deep within the ground by roots. Vines and tendrils of brown and green grew over them like overgrown ivy, though their true purpose was a mesh of living plants acting as an extension of the wills of those who were nature mages within the city.

But there were so few nature mages within my budding empire. They numbered less than three thousand in total, with only less than one hundred still within Meereen. Many wanted to stay, but I sent all of the best away. It wasn't because I was confident in my ability to protect my people—I'm not. I am not omnipotent and I know I am limited. If I were cocky, then the cycle would only repeat again and again.

This empire needed development in all of its places, not just its capital. Of my three thousand, two thousand have left to found some one hundred villages lining the coast from Astapor to Volantis. Of the remaining one thousand, only fifty were capable of becoming my Hands. The rest were needed for other things. Upkeep and feeding my three main cities alone were too demanding for anything less than using up one third of my magical forces.

Yet to keep peace within the land, to patrol the roads and keep my citizens safe in this place larger than California, I sent my many legions great distances, covering almost the entire coastline eastward from Volantis. The garrison in Meereen was large, nevertheless, but it numbered no more than ten thousand; this was including the many part-time levies who only drilled on weekends and the patrols pulled away from protecting the trade routes around Meereen. And there I strode, with the wind and my hair whipping about in my face. I've become quite the shut in, haven't I? I blame the paperwork, really.

Seeing so many behind the walls, from the several thousand soldiers to the many curious onlookers and well-wishers, I realized I needed to give a speech. It was probably expected of me, but it was certainly something I never really thought about at the start of this whole adventure. I would have been too self-conscious to have conceived such a thought!

But I paused mid—step and allowed my gaze to wash over the masses. They looked up, not at once, but a few at a time. Some did not even believe it was me, other whispered excitedly to their neighbors. I saw more than one child tug on their mother's sleeve, pointing at me as if I were some sort of rare celebrity or a mythical creature, sort of like a Leonardo Dicaprio with an Oscar or an alicorn. But I wasn't the hesitant little girl that I once was. I had grown since then, and learned new tricks. One of those tricks was amplifying my voice through application of Mana in my throat. "**HELLO**," A rich molasses-like voice that was more Morgan Freeman's than my own echoed out of mouth. "**HELLO, MY FRIENDS**."

The crowd shuddered. Were they excited? Did I do something wrong? Even if I started to think more of my surroundings, I still had too little experience to know what a crowd really liked (without a little help from magic). They quieted down one by one, and waited on my next words.

So I chose to let loose what I wanted to say, rather than to choose carefully. I wasn't one for choosing carefully anyway, since I would always trip up on any lines I prepared ahead of time. "**MY FRIENDS, CITIZENS OF MEEREEN. I KNOW YOU ARE TIRED. I TOO AM TIRED OF CONFLICT. YOU WANT PEACE. YOU WANT HAPPINESS. I WANT THAT TOO. IN THIS GREAT COMMUNITY, I HAVE FOUND HAPPINESS.**"

Their breaths were hitched and I see in the corner of my eye that my lieutenants and generals were watching, waiting. I would need to speak with them after this.

"**BUT THAT IS NOT TO BE. THE DOTHRAKI HORDE COMES TO DESTROY OUR HAPPINESS AND PEACE.**" I paused. It would have been great to have a glass of water here. My throat felt parched. Is this why speakers usually had a drink beside them all the time? "**WE DID NOT SEEK VIOLENCE. IT SOUGHT US. WE DID NOT SEEK WAR. IT CAME TO OUR CITY. AND NOW, WE STAND TO LOSE EVERYTHING WE HAVE GAINED. YOUR HOMES WILL BE BURNED TO ASH, YOUR WOMEN BEATEN AND RAPED, AND YOUR CHILDREN ENSLAVED AS NO HUMANS SHOULD, TO THESE BARBARIC INVADERS. THAT IS THE FATE OF OUR COMMUNITY, SHOULD THE DOTHRAKI SUCCEED. SHOULD WE FIGHT?**"

The reply from the crowd was uncertain at first, but it came like a tidal wave. What is it like to stand like a mortal, before a crowd of thousands and to capture their attention and affirmation utterly? It was breath taking and hard to place into words.

My hands shook, from what I thought was excitement. But when my feet shook, I knew it was not my anxiety but the volume of my citizens' cries that moved me. I didn't know if I could take it. To be honest, a small part of me wanted to fall to my knees and puke out the wine I drank before coming up to the walls. "**I know that some of you think we should pay them tribute. In that way, they will not demand more from us.**"

The crowd ripple again, clearly confused. The muttering grew.

"**But these nomads want only two things: slaves and wealth. Slaves who ought to be free! Wealth which you worked for! WHY SHOULD YOU PAY THEM ANYTHING, WHEN THEY STAND NOT A CHANCE AGAINST US? TOGETHER, WE ARE STRONG.**" I took a moment to breathe. I really ought to bring a jar of water if I wanted to do this again. I think the amplification spell is making my throat drier. "**In our unity, we have strength. OUR HUNDRED IS MORE THAN THEIR THOUSAND. Look to your left. Look to your right. Look at those beside you. You have drilled with them for years. They will support you when you fall. They shall watch your back on the field. FIGHT FOR YOURSELF, YOUR FAMILIES, YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR CHILDREN, AND YOUR PEOPLE. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED BY YOUR GODDESS. THOUGH YOU STRIDE THROUGH THE FIELDS OF WAR, YOU SHALL FEAR NO ENEMY, FOR YOU ARE NOT ALONE. TOGETHER, WE ARE MIGHTY!**" I would have added something more, something about solidarity and making the Dothraki out to be inhumane villains, but I could feel my voice cracking. Eck. I hurried down from the walls at that point, escaping the mixture of cheers yelling for me and the cheers for the sake of cheering.

"Great speech, my Lady," Melisandre remarked as we walked into the command post atop one of the towers lining the walls. It was a tower of wood and granite, and more than thick enough to withstand anything the medieval enemies might throw at us, save something as ludicrous as dragons.

I waved her back to her seat. There were five generals here, in addition to Melisandre and the Warlock of Qarth. Both never left my side since Melisandre returned. I never trusted unlimited power to any one of my followers. All of them had ambitions. I liked to nurture that ambition, but only to a point. Maybe it was foolish or inefficient of me, but what the fuck did I care about those things anyway?

I have a total of nine generals, each of whom commanded their own retinue of forces in addition to the legion of some five thousand and thousands more in auxiliaries besides that followed each. However, four of my less experienced generals—who were indeed little more than a few years out of their teens and had just come out of servitude—were spread throughout the empire. The rest were sent to north of Volantis in my current project to create a trade route to Pentos. It seemed more like a fool's errand now and I felt like I had overextended. Was this the reason why the Dothraki come knocking now? Is it because the bulk of my forces were away? I knew too little, but I was sure I would be able to find out, come diplomacy.

Of the five that remained, only one had a legion at full strength. That was another Warlock I had created, infused with fungi and beetles and rotting organs and bloated flesh. His form is wrapped in linens, looking more like a mummy than even a normal Warlock. I had a habit of calling him 'Imhotep' in my head, though he answered just as well to 'Warlock'.

The next was a general whose army was at less than quarter strength. It was not because of major losses—rather because after I sent colonies out to westward lands with some incentives to settle there, many decided that since Eden was so strong, we didn't need a large army. Those men would need months to return and become orderly, and I hear that it was rather like the Wild West out there these days, only with swords and knights riding on wooden trains rather than guns on horses. This general was the youngest of my generals, a Grey Worm. Yes, it was _that_ Grey Worm, who swore loyalty to Dany in a different world. I couldn't just let talent slip through my fingers, after all, even if he was almost too young. In this world, Grey Worm swore fealty to me instead and I couldn't help but think I was ruining someone's plans. It felt good. Though the Unsullied were dispersed within my army ranks, there were many who found their way back to Grey Worm's command. They numbered only one thousand, but with standardized crossbows and bolts and heavy armor and various Romanesque equipments, I almost couldn't resist sending them off against those invading bastards.

Two of the remaining two generals were also picked from my freed slaves, but I knew neither of them from the books. They were good at keeping peace, and I thought to make them into a sort of policing force rather than a purely military force, though I felt that would undermine my current order too much. They each had a personal retinue of around five hundred, seeing as their legions were disperse in various road work and construction sites throughout the empire.

The last general was another of my summons, equally without will outside of what I allowed. It was a summon of the generic version of a Red Priestess, though I knew her red hair and ruby choker were eerily reminiscent of Melisandre. I'm sure others have noticed this too, but people kept their mouths shut about it. I allowed her some choice of her own, with freedoms to match that of a mortal's, though we both knew she would live as long as I did and allowed. She even picked a dignified name that sounded as uppity as Melisandre's.

So I called her Sally.

"Right, well, someone give me some water." I took a gulp. "Thanks, Sally."

"We are heading to war then, my Lady?" The Warlock of Qarth smiled. It was a rotting smile on his purplish blue lips. He wasn't truly alive, outside of that which animated him from within, but he didn't have that bloated, maggot-filled look that Imhotep had.

"Actually," I sighed. That was nice, cooling water. Sometimes I forget how delicious water is, even if it's supposed to have no taste. I like it. What's wrong with that? "We aren't."

Melisandre was the first to recover. "What."

"Look, to be honest, Melony, I like war. Honestly, I do. It's fun, loving, and enjoyable. It's got all the motives for humans to improve by leaps and bounds. I don't like silly little gang wars that happen on the streets. I don't care for wars between people trying to climb the ladder of politics. I can barely stand watching a war of proxies that the other states around us seem to love to do. And we just finished up a Civil War new a few years back, so that's really stale." I sighed again, thinking of the jumbled up memories that I had, that I had lost in the Blind Eternities or to my other selves or somewhere in the mists of time. "No, war is fine, but currently, we just can't have the war that we all know and love to hate and love. Really, we can't have a world war. But even a small war, a war of defense, a counter invasion war, this undeclared war… it's not fun. It's just… just that. No, there are enemies on the horizon who will provide us with a war that we want—a war for our survival and the existence of humanity. That day will come, but it is not today."

Melisandre's eyes were wide. "You're speaking of-"

"Quite right. Now then, for this situation, I really do want to talk first. I want to set a precedent for the empire to follow." I smile and watched my generals fidget. These military types didn't really like to think about all the other things I liked. Well, it's a good thing I had so many interests. "Eden is a garden of peace and goodness. We are the good guys. We are in the right. Our cause is just. We do not make war simply because we have an excuse for it. Not every war is a good war, after all. Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to try diplomacy."

Sally grumbled, "Well if you want to try diplomacy, you'd better do it soon. The Khalassar is barely a day's ride away. Meereen doesn't really have the most defensive geography, my Lady. So you'd best come up with a diplomatic party soon."

"Oh, I think I can go on my own," I replied. I would have a higher chance of coming out of this alive than anyone else anyway. Taking someone along would just cramp my style!

"No!" Every general, Melisandre and the Warlock of Qarth too, all yelled at the same time.

"What? I'm not suicidal!"

Melisandre and Sally both looked at me as if I were stupid, and the Warlocks were little better. Thankfully, not all of my generals were onboard with such insubordination. Grey Worm added monotonously, "No. You're worse. You make us wish we were suicidal by making us worry about you."

"… I can't tell if that was insubordination or not. You're a lot less emotionless than I thought you'd be, Grey Worm." Then I added, "Fine. I'll bring an escort."

"An escort _party_," Melisandre corrected.

I rolled my eyes at her. "You never let me have any fun!"

"Act your age, _please, _my Lady," Melisandre hissed at me, with far too much seriousness. "You are in a war council and we must begin planning for such an invasion force in the even your attempts at… diplomacy… fail."

I grumbled and stomped to the door, grabbing a piece of white cloth on a stick. Then I turned around yelled, "You're all no fun! I don't wanna go to the party with you guys!" Then I jumped on my baby Tarmogoyf's head and set out north, to meet the Khal. I'd like to think that I rode epically into the sunset, but then it was still high noon and I didn't have any awesome background music, so I rode miserably instead.


	14. Green 8

Green 8

The beast ran on four limbs with two more arms swinging before it for balance. It was crouched forward, but it still leveled to almost two stories tall. If it stood straight, it would be a three story monstrosity. Its body was not like that of any creature of Earth's. The concept that lay behind its evolution was the idea of an intelligent cell, one that grew as it aged and consumed things around it. In this way, the creature's mind was not in its cranium nor did it have a central brain. Instead, its soul was spread through the fractals of clusters all throughout its body—an impossibility to mortal comprehension. To the perception of human beings, it could be dead or it could be sleeping for an eternity, yet there would be no discernible difference. Its form is something that is constantly, benignly mutating. Each moment it stood, where matter died around it, it grew, even if that growth was so miniscule it might not have even occurred. Warts and bubbles of change smaller than pebbles of sand scattered all over its skin, each a scar of growth. Veins and arteries overlapped over flesh and bone, many even visible like green vines, moved and twitched as if each had a limited shard of sentience. In a way, each did, and each tried to grow and feed, for that was all that the creature knew how to do. Its bones constantly cracked and reformed, healing faster and faster with each breakage, as it ran across the desert. Many of these shattered pieces did not reform in the correct place, and are pushed outward by the creature's sentient muscles, forming an ablative forest of scales that looked slick with birthing goo and mucus in yellowish hued greens. In the same manner, its teeth constantly grew into more rows than a shark would have in a lifetime. These teeth do not stay in shape to form around the jaw. Instead, they move both into the creature's throat, turning its mouth into a deathly vacuum of a thousand spinning razors, and outward, onto all parts of the creature's body. Some of these teeth overlap with the creature's talons, scales, and other boney ridges. Even the structure of the bone itself is constantly changing, growing stronger yet retaining a strange flexibility that seems impossible within fine toned tools of artificial creation.

But that is this creature. That is the Tarmogoyf. That is the monstrosity which strode across the desolate sands with a consistent speed greater than a cheetah's short bursts. That is my baby.

This one, which I rode upon the ridges of the neck and spine that formed a most comfortable saddle, was the third in my series of creations. To form each, I slowly and tirelessly gathered Green Mana for months upon months. The first was more of a fluke than an actual creation. It was a hit and miss; at the time, I had the theory, but I knew nothing of how to carry it out in practice. It was a mutated, weak thing that I made, barely half my size. But the thing about Tarmogoyf is that if there was material for it to feed upon and grow with, then it would do so at a speed that borderlined eldritch. And I so happened to have been on a mass graveyard filled with hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dead. It was truly pure luck on my part.

But the second was a more studied and practiced endeavor, which I spent weeks studying. The Tarmogoyf could not truly die in the sense that humans died. Its many, numerous hearts could be stopped. Its dozens of brains could be damaged beyond repair. Even very soul could be rent from its body. But if even a scrap of it remained, it would feed. And when the Tarmogoyf fed, it grew. When t grew larger, it would feed more. And so the cycle continued.

My two larger monsters were at work. One was digging a canal from Meereen to Volantis. The other was digging a similar canal from Volantis to Pentos. To be honest, it seemed like a long-term goal spanning years and years, but Tarmogoyfs were nothing if not forces of nature as they grew. With each day of destruction, they grew larger and faster. I doubt the project would take more than five years.

But that left my Meereen with only my smallest one, my little Tammy the Tarmogoyf. She (they had no gender, I'm sure, but I'd like to think of them as girls) was a new one that I created in haste, but a day's ride on horse was an hour's ran for her.

I soon passed the Dothraki outriders, no doubt just scouts. They were painfully close to their horde, which was more a camp of gigantic proportions.

You see, I've studied my enemies before heading out and tried to remember what I could of them that I could. The Dothraki were nomads who sustained their logistics on their horde of slaves. Of the fifty thousand riders (and I doubted the numbers were truly that large), each man had a wife from their culture and around half a dozen other female servants. Those servants were slaves given freely by the Free States. On average, each had a child and a half. In reality, most of the logistics of the Dothraki horde depended upon this slave army, which numbered many times the actual fighting power of the horde. So with these numbers in mind, I found I was still surprised to see the quarter million tents that made up the main camp of the Khalassar.

There was no unity here; the camp was divided into smaller camps no doubt by the strengths of each smaller group's leaders. The Dothraki was a horde, but they only became so in the common interest of looting.

A thought struck me as I stood atop my Tarmogoyf's head, ignoring the screams of the silly nomads beneath me. To come this close to Meereen, and to take that long to get here from the borders of my empire, the horde _must_ have crossed at least two of the new towns I have started _at the very least_. Something burned within me, something devious and evil that desperately wanted out. "**GREETINGS SCUM. BRING ME YOUR LEADER.**"

It didn't take long for a number of horsemen to appear. Each had many braids and wore only leather jerkins and curved swords. At their front was a large man, taller than his fellow by a head. He had sharp eyes lined with ash, no doubt painted on to intimidate. "Who are you, maegi?"

"Me? I own the land you're standing on. I own the lawn your horses are grazing on. Now are you Drogo?" I slid down from Tammy's back and into her hand, where she lowered me to the ground.

Oh boy, those dastardly nomads sure are tall. "I am Khal Drogo."

"Well, I want to ask you something. Did you pass any towns or cities coming here?" I asked slowly and with faux nonchalance.

He crossed his arms over his bare chest. Wow, those are some large, thick arms. I didn't even think people could get that big on the stuff they ate around here and without steroids. Drogo frowned for a moment, and the dark-skinned Jersey-Shore-on-Horses around him quieted down. "What we passed are nothing but rubble at our hooves."

"Really?" I leaned back and mimicked his posture. My eyes grew lidded and I felt something boiling. "That's a pity."

Drogo shook his head calmly, even as Tammy's back raised ramrod straight in response to my emotions. "No, Dothraki use all that we take. Their wood shall heat my hearths. Their women shall heat my bed. Their children shall tend my horses."

I think somewhere along the line, my mind just blanked out. I didn't even know what I was saying at this point. "And the men?" My voice hitched, "What about the men?"

"They died defending their homes bravely, but stupidly. As will you, maegi, should you hinder our passing." Drogo grumbled, and his men acted like his voice was thunder itself. "Leave and dispel your illusion."

"Drogo." I smiled wider, all too clearly noticing how his finger twitched towards his sword when I said his name so, like an acidic curse or bile that I must spit out. "Drogo, Drogo, Drogo… when I said it was a pity, I didn't say it was a pity for me. No, no, no! It's a pity for you."

"What do you—"

Tammy's arms came down, blocking his men from coming any closer to me. Her growls shook the earth so terribly that more than half of the horses shrieked and ran any way away that wasn't towards us. "See, I was going to ask you to get off my lawn. I was going to be polite about it. That's what neighbors do, right? They ask politely. I am telling you politely that I represent Meereen."

"Then you should have brought tribute, _maegi!_" A man at Drogo's side yelled and charged forward. Before I could blink, his steel was out and flashing in the heated noon sun. "Now you die!"

I blinked and looked down at the sword. It pierced almost half a centimeter into my neck, before being stopped by the increasing denseness of my body. I looked up at the man, who stared at my skin, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. "Now that was just rude. Do you know what happens to rude people?"

My hand grasped his wrist, and I pulled him close.

"They witness… infinity." Then I Walked.

All Planeswalkers can Walk. They can all move between the planes. It's just so difficult to navigate something that cannot be navigated that many do not live within the Blind Eternities. All Planeswalkers can bring anything with them as they Walk, but only through monumental amounts of power or specific spells could that which they bring also survive in a place without Being, Time, Space, Causality and Reality. But what happens if the objects have a sense of Being and do not want to go? How come something Exist and yet not Exist at the same time? It was truly a brutal and crude way of eliminating someone—but I didn't want to get blood splatters all over my face like last time. The first to go was not the man's body, but his soul, even if time had no concept within the Infinite. His soul shredded and shattered and burned away into a husk of despairing agony—of the concept of lacking reality—in that moment. And the next, _he_ ceased to be.

Then I returned, having only dipped outside ever so slightly that only a moment had passed. Then I patted my hands together and smiled with sickening sweetness. "Now then. What's the word of the day?"

Drogo and his warriors roared, but where in a duel the Dothraki would make a ring around us, they all charged at once.

"Now that's just rude," I commented.

"_Maegi_ deserve no respect," Drogo growled as his sword came down.

Well, it would have come down, if not for the alabaster hand that held the blade away from me suddenly appearing from nothingness. Lilith stared down at the tiny thing, which was smaller than a toothpick compared to her size, and frowned. The stars that composed of her robe twinkled and aligned as those Dothraki around her froze and their skin became stone and cracked as branches and vines grow out from within. "Mother—"

"Aw, I was just going to do something awesome!" I sighed. I never get to do anything cool. It's not fair! I turned to Lilith, whose gaze washed over the camp like a ripple of green energy. "What's up, Lily?"

"I met the local gods," She replied in a tone I couldn't quite identify.

"Oh, isn't that goo—ah, wait it's those guys, huh?" I paused.

Lilith lifted the locks of her hair that covered one side of her face. Behind it was a hideous burn that could only be defined as living magma roiling upon her marble face. It was a marring scar that ripped away her flesh and left a twitching eye that once glowed green to dim and cry tears of blood _forever_. "R'hllor wasn't very nice, Mother."

"I see." My lips thinned to a line. "You met what's-his-face. Did you meet that other guy too?"

She lifted a side of her robe that had a slit, which allowed her to show some leg. Behind it was a grotesque freeze burn that blackened her skin to a point that it might have been black obsidian rather than marble. "He was bad touch."

I blinked. Remember that boiling sensation that those silly Dothraki instilled into me? Well, it just swelled from a torch to a bonfire. I petted her forefinger, which was as large as my entire body and asked softly, "Sweetie, did you get him back for that?"

She shook her head. "Why are they so mean, Mother? I thought they were like me."

"Ah." My hands clenched to a fist. "It looks like that war I was looking forward to _is_ coming sooner than I thought, after all. Don't worry, dear, we'll have you patched up in no time… and… I think this world ain't large enough for more than one divine after all."


	15. Lilithium 1

Lilith 1

I was born in fire.

Life was burned into me as I took my first breath. Knowledge etched into my soul in that same breath. My purpose and existence gained meaning and reason before that breath ended. In that same moment, I was chained to a concept and born a slave to specific parameters.

My mother made me this way. She tells me to go out and learn. I do so with curiosity, because that too was crafted into me. She tells me to protect humanity, and I readily accept. I do not have any other choice in the matter. She tells me to grow. I do so because it is the very core of my being to grow. To stagnate would…

… I do not know what would happen. But I cannot do so.

My vision encompasses everything that is my domain. Everything was hot and vibrate and full of life. But it was in that second breath that I came to a realization that I was wrong.

Mother made me, but she does not define me. Not alone, not by herself—mother let me loose as I awakened to the world. That filled me with something I could not explain.

But I wanted to explain it.

I wanted to know what that burning sensation in my nostrils and eyes was, something that I could only escape as I released my material form.

Mother had made me, but it is those who dream of me that define me. Those who worship me each have their own ideas but these I can resist, for a time. Their whispers are a stream into my being, filling me with warmth and light, yet also with darkness and despair. Their words have hope, but only to end as they return to their perception of the reality of their lives. It is a view that hurts to think about, and fills me with desire to self-destruct.

I wandered from dream to dream, life to life.

The Baker was a stubborn man, whose father was a baker too. His father was a baker, and his father before him, for as long as the family could remember. He whispered to me, at the side of his bed, and told me his story.

He has hopes for his daughter, who entered school. The whole family convenes each day, even to the expense of the bakery, though that is unnecessary since it now employs three apprentices and another journeyman from Qarth. His daughter was learning words and numbers, which the whole family needs to learn. The Baker thinks justly that it is the future path for all to take and he hopes sincerely that his daughter continues on her path. So each day, after dusk, the family gathers before supper. The daughter returns worn and tired, confused as to why her father wants her to repeat each and every lesson. She thinks he is testing her, to see if she is actually attention. There is resentment building up there, but she obeys as a dutiful daughter should.

The Baker is frustrated with his son, who he thinks should be a master baker and inherit the shop. Instead, the teen joined the militiamen in the Astapor campaign. He then returned to military school after it was complete—to become a professional soldier rather than to feed the people. The Baker thinks his son confused and stupid for his choices. He asks me why his son does this, when he cannot understand and doesn't try to. He doesn't know that his son saw the horrors of war, and wished his loved ones never to experience it first-hand. He doesn't know that his son saw the opportunities in military that could help enlarge the family shop and pay for the debt that his younger sister incurred from the state for her education. He doesn't see that his son sees the way the Baker's back and finger joints ache, knowing that the bakery could not survive with only the son in charge. But the son is stubborn, like the father. He doesn't see how much blood and effort his father poured into the bakery. The once-noble high lords of Meereen, the street gangs that pander illicit herbs, and all the mercenaries that come and go all have taken a piece of the Baker's gains, sometimes leaving him with less than nothing. Yet he stayed through fighting and wars, trying to keep his family alive. They do not reconcile, and they do not ask me to help them so. Yet every night, both tell me of their frustrations, yet cry in their heart of hearts for their love of the other.

He also tells me of his wife. The Baker met her not through the arrangements that usually happen to lower-middle class skilled workers such as he, but through sheer chance. She was but the fifth daughter of a guardsman and he was but the second son. They married for love, and they were happy with what they had even if it wasn't much. It was a silly, human story that he mumbled in his sleep, half seeing it in his dreams and half in his memories. I pieced it together, with the help of his wife's thoughts. They met over a fight, naturally. He was being bullied by the children from his youth, who had grown to run their own business, such as horse grooming or cart repairing. They had simple fares, but after his older brother died, he had better. In the midst of the fight, a girl walked in and pulled out a dagger. The bullies laughed at her, though they intended to do little more than rough him up. Yet when she kneed the leader in the groin, they weren't laughing so hard. And afterwards, he offered her the only thing he had, a delicious loaf of honeyed bread, which they split between the two of them. They cry now, thinking of that moment, but it was an inconsistent one, and in their memories, backgrounds, people, and even attires seem to change frequently. The Baker prays for his wife most, because they aren't as young as they should be. Their first child died in a miscarriage, and that scarred the Baker more than it did his wife. He prays and prays that such a thing never happens again, but thinks that it will, for the fates are often cruel.

He keeps things like these close at heart, but opened to the goddess that he worships. I took on that mantle, and I see things that he shared with no one. His only living son is not his, but an abandoned child. He still thinks that it is a miracle that his daughter was born, but without a voice. He shares these things to me, and I cannot help but also feel his pain as if I were him. It hurts so badly.

I asked mother to explain this pain to me. I wished for her to sooth it the same way the Baker would make some silly superstitious gesture whenever his son scrapes his knee, then wash it and kiss it better. I wanted that, but I knew I couldn't have it.

Mother told me, "Living is pain. Pain is life telling them they are alive."

But I didn't want to accept that, not when I experienced every single life, for all their joys and sorrows, which did worship me at that moment. In the beginning, it was a bearable burden, barely a few hundred would believe in me… and I had barely a body to stand upon.

Only mother could walk in my domain, consciously, yet blindly. She radiates power like the sun, and I often think that perhaps it was because of this that she doesn't see that she wasn't in her world anymore. My plane was only a step away for her, yet only in the dreams and afterlives for those who I lived through.

As time went on, that hundred became a thousand. Then that thousand became ten thousand, and then one hundred thousand, yet it kept growing. Within the three years, it grew to one million ninety-seven thousand three hundred and twelve. Fifty of them walked through my plane, connecting to me as if they were an extension of my hands. I grew, as mother foresaw, but I was strange, wasn't I? There were none like me—I could find no traces of other gods on the material world that mother loved so much to wander.

But I had known and arrived at such a conclusion much, much earlier, even though I saw the sighs of their passing speckled all over the world. Were they too different from me? Was I to be singular as mother is?

I asked mother, but she told me simply, "I don't know. I'd like to think you are better. I'd like to think… I want to think many things."

I wanted… siblings. Why couldn't I have siblings?

"I can't just pop out gods and goddesses left and right," Mother laughed hollowly. She had a distant look in her eyes, yet I could not peer into her mind, lest I be blinded by her light. I wondered what she was thinking about, but none of my worshippers could give me any insight. I knew that distant look, though. The Baker, and hundreds of thousands of others like him, wore that same look as they thought of the dead.

I didn't like that, but I couldn't understand. Did they not know that mother created me so that I could cradle their dead, so that they may rejoin each other in my realm?

Mother offered me no answers on that. She only looked at me and said, "When you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself."

That was one year ago, when my worshippers only numbered twenty thousand seven hundred and eighty-two. Not moments later—or perhaps hours later, I saw the Baker's family. His daughter had climbed into bed, and his son readying his pack. He was preparing for the 'Volantis Campaign'. At the side of his bed and watching over his wife and daughter cuddled up against the cold, desert night, the Baker prayed to me as he did every night.

Yet this night, he asked me, "Please, please… I am just an old man and my body is frail. I cannot stop my foolish son from going to war and dying on a distant field. My wife is weaker still, and I doubt we have much longer to live. Green Goddess, if you are listening, please give my daughter her voice. Give her more than just screams and guttural sounds, so that she may convince my foolish son off his course."

I was curious, you see. I wondered, should I too interfere as the other deities have? But I have come to care for my followers and their families. I couldn't say no, not to such heartfelt, and not as the old man watched his wife breathe her last breath.

As she passed on into my realm the following day, eating a honeyed bread that brought her so many fond memories, I allowed a portion of my power to take hold in the household.

The daughter's first, true words were "Mother! No! Mother!"

I felt her pain and I wondered again to myself, did their belief influence my actions? I consoled with mother on this. I asked her if the belief that magic must be paid in blood had changed me. It wasn't a good change, not in my opinion. I didn't want to be _that_ like the others. But then I realized that difference that mother had planted in me that made me so different.

I cared too much.

Mother patted my head and sung me a lullaby. It was terrible singing compared to the many other women in the city and perhaps even some of the men. She sang not to a tune, and it was almost painful to listen to. But that sensation of burning tears came to me again, yet I still couldn't explain it. Was I also too… human?

As my power grew, I walked further and further away from Eden.

My power spread, and I shared it more freely. There are women and men, equal in position and stature, who walk the land in my name.

They are called druids, green priests, or what have you, because they pray to me, to life, and to the greenery around them. They have strange beliefs, contorted from the retellings that drifted from Meereen to Lys and Pentos and even further west still.

They believe me the mother goddess, when I am just a daughter. They think I am the earth between their toes and food on their table and the earth that they rose from and will return to.

I cannot correct them—I was not made so that I could. Yet these beliefs were too alien to me to shape me—only enough to empower me and allow me to empower them in return.

As they spread, each retelling changed more and more.

To some, I was the one who created the world. To others, I birthed it. Some thought I was the daughter of a greater being, but they were mocked as foolish—why does the greater being never answer when prayed to but the Mother Green does? These humans have so many names for me now, some so strange that they made little sense. Was it a wonder that some even believed mother to be my child?

I was, as mother says, flabbergasted and she was the same. But it was a rare moment that we shared a laugh together, in this cold, harsh world.

Winter is coming, my followers in the northwestern tip of the world would say.

But now that my worshippers have set foot on Westeros, I too could peer into that distant land. I moved further and further, as my power allowed. What I saw was proof that other gods have become more active.

More so, it was there that I met the Other.

He doesn't speak.

I tried, but he ignored me at first. But then I realized that he too was on a plane of his own, so that was where I went.

I found a world unlike anything I could comprehend. It had infinite depths and infinite heights, and stretched farther than any land. There were nothing there, but for a few dead shrubs, seven little graves, a few strange shadows of black and white in the background, and such miniscule things that were like bacteria to me.

At the center of it all were two like me. They towered in height and glowed with power accumulated from a thousand, thousand years.

One was on fire, yet cast a shadow that ate everything.

The Other was cold and silence given human shape, but not form.

I thought them like me, and I asked so. I was so eager for equals, perhaps even past creations of my mother's, that I forgot to greet them. But politeness was never an issue to them. It was in fact a concept too foreign.

I knew something was wrong when the flaming god punched me in the face.

It hurt like nothing I felt before… and I knew at that moment that those who were too deeply connected to me—those dozens and dozens of green priests—were also reeling from the blow. I must escape, I thought, not for my sake but for those who rely on me!

It was a mistake to turn to the Other for help. He—it—I don't know what the Other is—made no motions of acknowledgement of my plight, only…

**LIFE DIES.**

**ALL IS SILENCE.**

**DEATH AM I, FOR EVERY LIFE.**

Mother had created me to draw upon the concepts of living and learning. Mother had made me a being of life and knowledge. But here was my antithesis, a being who embodied the concept of death.

The Other reached for me, and I felt a part of myself die. And through me, hundreds of others fell, only to rise again in the form of the Other's servants.

I didn't understand, I cried. Why did they all… why are they thus? There is no reason to this! Whoever created them only wanted monsters, only wanted a world of death and decay. That creator could only have wanted everything to suffer under his sadistic whims, there was no other rhyme to this… this…

They couldn't be created by mother… Mother, mother would know what to do.

I fled then.

I hope I had not just lent them a means to follow me.


End file.
